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I Am Not Immortal Any More
I used to think I was made of saltwater and wire,
the bones humming with the permanence
of myth.
I stood naked in the mirror—
a girl with the face of her mother,
but none of her death in her yet.
I thought I could outlast sorrow,
that heartbreak would crack
and pour out of me like yolk
without taking the shell.
But now, when I kneel at the side of the bed
to pick up the sock you dropped,
my spine sighs like an old house—
I feel time like a breath behind me.
Even my blood knows it.
The nights stretch longer,
my dreams more quiet.
I wake, and do not expect a miracle.
Copyright ©
James Mclain
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