to write s.o.s. notes in returnable soda
bottles, my belly crinkled as the toe nail
that falls off after a tortuous summer
on pointe. This child you always wanted
swims in my arms like that gone nail,
I talk to it with my mouth shut. It teaches
you to sign, lip reads my nipples. In the movie
of September, some of the stills are missing.
I clutch the baby like someone at a crash site,
hear glass fall. the child we will not have
is all we wanted, all that holds us together
© 1995 by Lyn Lifshin.
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