My Poem Speaks
I will leave sorrows for
the journalists to report--
the way the cat deposits
dead birds on
my WELCOME mat.
I will pass on riddles like:
What is the survival
rate of betrayal
among women who
were once
father-less girls?
Or do broken promises
ache like broken bones?
Now, I prefer only to study:
the sound of your breath giving
life to the room, the way your
strong hand grasps mine
as you recover, and the tastes
of morning after I've filled
my mouth with you.
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