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It was years before I understood not all my playground friends…

Updated: 24 hours ago

choked

on unsought moisture

forced

through every mucus-lined threshold

a small girl body forms

in trusting

fetal exuberance.

Always sticky and sore.

It was so hard to jump rope.


(Previously published June, 2022, Rogue Agent Journal, Issue 87)



Finally, at sixty, I see


the unabashed truths


etched across gray folds,

cradled in brittling bone.

Name the

diminishment—

the utter, unholy, unselfing.

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