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dance_in_darkness's Journal

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Created on 2010-06-21 11:36:02 (#526279), never updated

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Birthdate:Jun 10
Like me, my father's son
grow old. Each year I see
him, he has a little
more loosed himself to slow
minutiae of death.
That is, his flesh gathers

earthward, a kind of mud
inches off his muscles,
pools, packs up fat to warm
an endangered belly
increasingly cared for.
The bad dreams of fathers

have bruised the slackened skin
around his eyes. His heart is
not in his children's games
as it was in his own:
who stood at the anchor
windlass in Norfolk Roads,

and dawn about to break
across the streaming chains,
and sang, because he knew
the song, Away Rio,
as the dark steel lifted
to meet the first dark sea.

-Suzanne Gross, "My Father's Son"
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