by Elisabeth Weiss
My children fight like puppies.
They bite, they goad, they test.
My neighbor teaches me to make an o
with my thumb and pointer and press;
for deadheaded pansies will regrow
when dormant seeds are coaxed.
Bones thin and glow on screen.
After each fight, a scream
and then they forget.
I lie here waiting to be blessed
by a machine examining
the labyrinth of bone and flesh.
Inside are years I never talked about
and years I could do nothing but.
Forgive me for how I seem.
It is not how I was.
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