Elegy as a Strand of Hair
The woman’s skin says: childless.
Her eyes still white, the iris still slight.
The wind takes a strand of our hair.
We leave one here, one there for someone to
misunderstand. A child will find
the imposter. A child will toss it out.
Babies are snoring in strollers.
One arm up in mid-air, mouth open.
I am half-alive. I am half-dead.
Maybe more.
Imagine it, the love the mouths will have when
we are no longer needed.
Childless selfish mouths.
Lucky mouths. Lucky lips that will moth them.
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