on bony branches
full of the knowledge one always encounters
at the end of a life. Some
aspirin mixed with water, and a mouse
born in a dream. The sounds my son
once made while suckling. That, made
and myself. Our
breath. Not even
here long enough
Today the breeze wears a fern:
and living in the world, in
your brief green dress.
The amputated breast, like
a soul made out of flesh.
Photo by Andy Feliciotti on Unsplash