My girl is a fortress

Of barbs and stone

The gate swings shut.

You cannot hold her,

she is a wisp,

Like the smoke I feared

Would consume her.

If the fire came and clawed the door

My hands would seize her, hair

of maize, and chubby cheeks.

Bunk beds in a doom-struck bunker.

Each night I envisaged it,

Stargazing at a concrete constellation.

A dutiful devil, to throw

The princess from the parapet.

Mère, soeur, des enfants.

Les choses terribles have made my girl a fortress.

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