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Tula

An immigrant’s son

I have ears like the blind.

Music comes easily;

night frightens me.

Home late from the hospital, she comes to my door—

I fake sleep.

She sings a soothing song

in the language I never learned:

prayers against rain.

Catalog of mythic birds.

As many names for music

as English has for theft.

Using them I invent

a country with only two citizens.

The word I choose for mother

sounds like the one for dream.