You, Son, the Executioner by Kathryn Bratt-Pfotenhauer

You, Son, the Executioner by Kathryn Bratt-Pfotenhauer

Another year gone, and you,not four weeks into living— You wonder at the night, at your black and whitelion with bells for eyes. I shake it, shake, shake and the hours creep upwards into dawn.We are the only ones awake. I hush you: soothe your bubbles of spit, the soft o of your mouthrooting for the latch, the nipple’s pointed glare, and the German songs of my childhoodleak sound from the boombox’s thrum out of sight; noise hugs the corner. Your…