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And This Must Occur Many Times

I took my son by the hand and walked out
to speak plainly of love, and how we were a people
who had come from a long line of people

who mostly, at best, bewildered me, and how
he might still grow mildly different from us,
the way one day follows the next and your clothes

might become faintly more dashing over time
or more ridiculous, and how if the police
come to the door don't say We don't

talk to police, say It's hard to see in this lightó
another warm and flawless evening
with his hand in mine like a ticket.

Michael Teig


Fall 2017

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