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Sport 27: Spring 2001
Baby
Baby
He lies in bed cuddling a pair of
cotton shorts he wore last summer.
‘This is my baby,’ he says. ‘Sasha.’
She has geometric tattoos
and a big rip in her backside.
He holds Sasha to my cheek. I wonder
if I washed her after the accident,
but she has no odour. He puts
a small hand through the torn fabric.
‘My baby is broken,’ he says.
