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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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