April 2010. a reflection as year three begins. the same steady loss, a bright flame eating up the oxygen that may have fed all other pain.

November 19, 2010

scuttle down the hall.

cure cure cure.

the sound your miniature feet make dragging mud through the house.

cure cure cure cure cure.

there is none there is none

but you carry more mud on those tiny shoes

like little cakes.

up the stairs and back down thumping

cure. cure.

hard.

you never quite make it to the top.

and i’m up there thinking:

and who will clean up after you

when i’m gone?

 

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