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MURDERED CHILD Kathleen Weaver How strange the lewd pose along the highway. The wind stopped and in earnest lifted and drew back from fanning her body. Such nakedness can’t be clothed but must be taken away and clothed. A dialectic stalled here. Can any question be posed in this wrong light? A fault widens in our fault-filled world. Yet how odd to have had in her pocket all her short life the very mirror that’s now raised to a human nature. Surely a child just wants to play, to see a cloud or weathervane in a moving world whose moons faze her but don’t come too near. Some children can’t accomplish being alive for all that long. Clouds pass over the small body, the road darkens. There’s the lightest possible rain. She will keep her maiden name. Nor can the meadow’s night-flowering campion teach her any further thing about summer

Kathleen Weaver


Permafrost Magazine Summer Issue, 36.2