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To David - by Stephanie Yorke
I’ve known Absalom with his wrists
bent over the frets;
I’ve known Solomon with one foot
on the staircase.
I’ve known Absalom to waste
entire Saturdays wrapped in bed, watching his aquarium –
when the fish turn, his ribs flicker.
I’ve known Solomon to press his face against
oak banisters, and plan
to eat tiger in Africa,
shoot rubies in Sheeba
with the queen on her throne like the lump in his throat
when he teaches her two mantras:
breasts like pomegranates/ chasing the wind.
And Absalom sets his sobs between his sister’s,
their hair wet, and lungs
nosing the surface;
now he’s after the man with a knife,
gripping, and flying off, the handle.
I’ve known Solomon to clasp
the knees of foreign gods,
and adorn his prayers with floor plans:
love me back/ the cites I’ll build.
Here’s Absalom, sleeping in a pup tent,
signing war statutes he hasn’t read.
Here’s Solomon cutting his heart and initials
into the bark of Lebanon’s cedars.
Both boys climb trees they can’t climb down –
this is how I know their father.
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