Sada PATRICK LANE
Barefoot in gumboots in the dark closet elsewhere, the table you sat at named the Crows. The mind of poverty. Mostly blind and looking out at the shimmering world. Light. And your friend Billy with his Mason jar of maggots. You with your gopher. What you brought, the others with their puppies and kittens. One girl, the blonde one he loved from the big house on the hill, brought butterflies in a cage made of bamboo. She was a Bluebird. How years later he left her with his children forever. Still blind. That innocence once lost can only be wonder. Billy weeping when they took his maggots away, one fly, the mother, he told the teacher, crawling over the unborn seething as they drowned. Sada – pure one, or Mitsuko, child of light
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