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Beau Boudreaux
Work Out
He sucks down his second bottle
lines up another breast milk,
our eyes fixate, his hazel once
blue and this evening we’re going
for the record, maybe more than ten ounces
gasping and panting
like a prizefighter between rounds
we bounce him on our knees, pat
his back, search for burps
piquant farts, stroll
around the room—
there is no crying, not a tear
sleep a friendly enemy
lurking beneath his mobile.
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