A poem by Morgan Bazilian

Their boy is sweet
He has a big smile
His eyes downturned
His hands always in a light fist

He was moving his head
And moving his feet
They turn inward
The toes wiggling at each other

He finds that funny
And stares
And then remembers
We are there visting him

He has on pile bedclothes
With sports balls on them
Baseballs and basketballs
Footballs and drool

He doesn’t get up
When we arrive
He sits and waits and yells for us
To see him

He tells us that his bus is coming
He takes it to special school
Each day
He doesn’t want to sleep

His mother smiles at him
Holds his hands
Brushes his hair
Brushes his teeth

She will always have him with her
Something that sounds nice
But in some ways
It is not.

Morgan Bazilian is a poet. HIs last thirty poems have appeared in poetry journals including: Exercise Bowler, Pacific Poetry, Angle Poetry, Dead Flowers, Poetry Quarterly, Garbanzo Literary, and Innisfree. My short fiction has been published in Eclectica, South Loop Review, Embodied Effigies, Shadowbox, Slab, Crack the Spine, and Glasschord.

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