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Some places you could die in,
                                               if you could just go on
                                               living there.
The boy, his legs bare and small,
swinging in the stroller, sockless, suede-shoed feet touching
the runner. He can walk, but the woman
keeps him from running
into the street. He won't obey
but listens to everything we say. Head tilted, face changing
with the conversation. Green leaves leap through fences.
Cars wait while we cross. And each bird the boy greets
with its name, "Bird," flies away. The sky holds everything.

The woman pushes her son's son along. Her arms strong enough
  to hold
nine strong horses prancing.
She's given her money away
because someone had to bury
a child. That is the worst thing.
A mother burying her child.

I would never do that to her, even though it means
what it means.
A thousand years from now
when I am only a dream
I will dream this dream
of strolling.
Perhaps I am doing so now.

Written by Angela Jackson


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