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How She Looks to Me

Her story is not mine

yet our lives are so intertwined

I sometimes forget

we are not one person.

Fireworks, loud and colors and smoking

smells, an assault on the senses,

yet she looks to me and asks

“Are you happy?”

“Yes,” I tell her, “Look, that green one is my favorite.”

“Do you like me still?”

“I love you.”

“Are we still the same?”

“Of course.”

Sometimes I forget

your mother is a child.

you know this now

but only recently and

I worry

like a mother

though I am still a child

playing in the fucking dirt

but the dirt is good and cool

and you join me down there

and we grab handfuls of the stuff

and let it filter through our upturned palms

so that only rolly-pollies, junebugs,

and ants remain

and we become goddesses

in this world we have created.

A tear falls from my right eye and

I don’t know why

but soon there are

more of them and

the dirt becomes

mud and washes away down the

street into the

gutters through the

pipes into the

river back up

into the sky

and now

it is raining and I

am still crying and the rain streaks down your cheeks elbows and legs

so that you are crying too but everything

is alright now because

we are the same again.

I don't look too often

I mostly listen

I hear rarely

but when I do

my body stops

humming, buzzing, whirring,

the heart meditates

for those savory five seconds.

I breathe in an infinite breath

a speck of you remains

in the vastness

a place where

We are both allowed and

We are both loved.

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