By Timothy Gager
I hold the blind blue-lipped boy in my lap. The boy’s squirm is not soft, but rigid, sinking his head into my stomach. “I don’t think he likes me,” I say when the boy pushes once more, harder, knocking the wind out of me.
“He may be hot or perhaps, oh, I don’t know, it’s hard to tell,” you say. He begins to cough hard enough to expel phlegm on my shirt. “Let me take him,” you say and I now see the veins in his head match the color of his lips, and
You say, “There are angels around him, more angels than I’ve ever seen.” You look into his eyes; I watch you search for god.
Timothy Gager is the author of four books of fiction and poetry. He is published often in print and on the web. He lives at timothygager.com.
Photo "Sleeping" courtesy of Adrian Yee, Canada.
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