Insomniac

Small with wild legs, the boy stole your eyes

the day he was born.

In a language you’ve tried to keep

from him, your name is mother of sorrows.

When he does not answer your latest call, dream

him grown and gone: far off, a vial of your tears

on his nightstand.

In the autumn of his blood, he will gift your hurt

to a child dying of thirst; the only inheritance

of worth in the village of your synapses.

But—for now—he’s still your boy. Sweet little

wreck. Check the room you’ve locked him in.