TE20 Migrant Mosaics

Márton Simon

Still There, Shivering

I don’t have a way to take to you. Still. I love you. I remember how there wasn’t even enough meat on you to feed a ten-year-old boy. Or just me. I picture you in your clothes, like a child picturing tea into a play teacup. This is what has stayed with me. I hold my arms to my chest for a while. Then I just want to light up, but I’m embarrassed to in front of you - - - this is the only way I can picture you, with a face, though I always hold a different mask in front of it, you could be anything, just not what you are. I was cold. I ripped the weeds, sat on a gravestone, they’d raked the summer away and closingtime , they said. You’re still there, shivering like chicken feathers in the grass, trembling in the wind.

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