< Issue 3 >
Cut
by Rose Mary Boehm
A Moroccan boy.
His young wife had asked him
as a token of his devotion
to kill his mother and
bring her the liver
(the place where love lives)
as proof of his deed.
Running home, he carried
it in his hands,
stumbled and fell.
Close to his face, in the dust,
the liver whispered:
Are you hurt, my son?
Wherever my love lives
I need it cut open
to give me access.
Cut
by Rose Mary Boehm
A Moroccan boy.
His young wife had asked him
as a token of his devotion
to kill his mother and
bring her the liver
(the place where love lives)
as proof of his deed.
Running home, he carried
it in his hands,
stumbled and fell.
Close to his face, in the dust,
the liver whispered:
Are you hurt, my son?
Wherever my love lives
I need it cut open
to give me access.
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