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Please,
I say,
when Papa opens his mouth
to yell some more
let me sleep, Papa.
If you think I must be punished,
very well,
these bruises
have done your work
for you.
I lay my head
softly
against my pillow
Mama brings a cool cloth
gently
lays it against
the deepening bruise.
Tomorrow,
when the picket line disperses,
much as I may wish
for my bed
for a hot bath
I know now
if there are bruises
or cuts
I cannot come home
until night
shares her shadows.
Excerpted from Audacity by Melanie Crowder. Copyright © 2015 by Melanie Crowder. Excerpted by permission of Philomel. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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