But it was just a cinder moon
Rising from a smoke stack
I’d just read Hirschfield’s poem’s last line
‘Calling her children to come in from a day
Whose losses as yet remain child-sized’
When right below it I find ‘The sublimated
Forces of sex, love, money and class
Converged upon a little girl’s flesh’
In an article about another little girl
Who grew up in Morocco
‘In an art-filled house’
‘Just another species of animal’
With animal-sized losses
Following the children in
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