Day 63 of 100 Poems/100 Days

The Auction

I sold the boy, to the highest bidder,
gave his bones away, one by one,
burnt his sweater, his photographs.

I tore at him, ferocious,
beating against his chest,
with open hand,
we shouting in unison.

Placed him in the trunk,
drove till empty,
till lost in the forest.

I whispered in my ear:
“it was only a dream,
a lie,
a story once told to me;
I could never do this thing.”

I placed him under the sycamore
so that the ghost tree could eat him,
stuff itself with him –
O’ how he made the soil rich.

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