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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