It is mid-morning and I am crying

in the kitchen, the dog,

confused, stays close.

I am astonished by his loyalty

in this moment of despair

that is not mine to hold:

a young boy, red-haired,

wide-eyed, spoke so freely

into a camera, into a reel,

recounting the tale of his damaged

glasses, gripping them tightly,

believing in repair.

One lens swinging loose from its frame

like an eye pulled from the socket.

The other has defected –

searching for safety.

The arms, bent, crooked

like all those lies from a state

who has turned its back

on children.

They are not replaceable.