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 I was a sleepless child 
 and sang to the mother of sleep, 
 cajoling her gift to wake in me. 
 The rocking horse creaked 
 in its stall in the attic, 
 and I would begin to rock, 
 hands tucked between my thighs. 

 My brother held me. 
 He told me that baby chimps rock 
 when they long for affection. 
 I sighed and snuggled deeper, 
 thought he was my father. 

 Surely he is tired of penguins now. 
 Flocks may rock but cannot fly. 
 The Danes hug him to their land 
 like one of their own eskimoes. 
 His letter falls like a tired gull 
 and grieves under my bed. 

 I rock. 
 Maybe he is lost. 
 Maybe the white wings of Greenland 
          blind him. 
 But her wings are always folded. 
 The waves scrape against her icy breast 
 as she broods his soul in the night. 

- Deborah Finch

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