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I’ve always preferred Cain.


His angry
loneliness, his
lack of his mother’s
love, his Christian
sarcasm: “Am I
my brother’s keeper?”
asks his brother’s murderer.


Aren’t we indeed
the keepers of our dead?


Let me start again:


I prefer apples that roll
far from the tree.


Dry like a twig
is umbilical cord, tucked between legs.


How did they cut it, Cain? With


a stone?


Under Criminal Record
write, “Mother, home.”
Under Weapon
write, “Mother, home.”


Valzhyna Mort

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