Today's poem is by Elisabeth Murawski
The Other Son
My father welcomes the prodigal.
He would hoist him to his shoulders
if he could.
As for me,
who can be trusted,
I know I speak with half a mouth:
pity my brother's bloodshot sorrow,
that will make him blind.
I stay here in my tent
brooding on the equity of rainfall.
The fig leaf bursts into life.
There is this scent of carnation.
Copyright © 2010 Elisabeth Murawski All rights reserved
Serving House Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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