Mock Heroic
       

I knew a girl who came
from a castle of a home

in Cartagena: trust fund,
no one had laid a hand

on her. All they did, all,
each night at bed, was tell

her to keep who she was
locked inside her seas

so no one would see it.
Granite terror of that

secret. Wild horse eyes
in the night. It's so easy

to make broken people.
I watch my boys mop all

the syrup with syrup
vehicles. How can I stop

them from fearing (you know
you can't make someone know)

their own pale underparts,
their own ladderless hearts?

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Copyright © 2015 Gibson Fay-LeBlanc All rights reserved
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