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Carla Thomas


Through the lush tunnel of Carolina
we have come to this moment.
Weathered wood beneath our backs,
we give our breath to the night
in the milky warm sleep of children.
There are only the three of us,
me and my brothers,
asleep on boards.

Even in my dreams 
their soft round forms are with me.
The earth swells beneath us,
whispers a myth 
of thick women:
we slept like this in our mother.

Our mouths bloom in the darkness
like vowels.
Or love.