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The Grown Boy

The fog let in, it breathes

its smoke beneath the shut door

where—dirtcake, scarecat—

he lolls in his bad bed.

The paintings look down

on the piled planes of his bones, the oval

of his face drawn on the pillow,

white on white in the darkened dream as, years on,

and gone from the locked past with his belongings,

he appears again whole, holding my provisional gift:

pomegranate, the meat and seeds

the heart he eats from his knife.

from Inside Spiders

Copyright © Persea Books 2013
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.

Published in Leslie Shinn Poems

This program is supported in part by a grant from the Idaho Humanities Council, a State-based program of the National Endowment for the Humanities.

Any views, findings, conclusions, or recommendations expressed in this (publication, website, exhibit, etc.) do not necessarily represent those of the Idaho Humanities Council or the National Endowment for the Humanities.