by Brian Gyamfi
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The Fall
Father’s body bargains with my body and I
witness his spine morph into wings—
a moth, or a fly, something like a symbol.
He holds violence in his breath, his hands. I need
to keep father’s wings tied to the heavens, separated
from my spine. To keep his hands closed—the life,
a prowling of a cell. God, can I bargain
with the brain to hold nothing: