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.

Printed from Cerise Press: http://www.cerisepress.com

Permalink URL: https://www.cerisepress.com/01/02/elegy-as-a-strand-of-hair