Whose story is she living inside now,
walking down furrowed black asphalt
to her car,
petting the cat
who will not wake her for milk
in the morning,
turning one last time to see
the faces of her daughters,
startled birds
in the window?
She holds the weight of
their sorrow in the cupped palms
of her hands
Her palms will twitch
naked and feverish
in her sleep
the fever will tell her
she is still alive
What song will she sing
when she rises tomorrow,
cold and solitary?
She knows only
it will not be this one.
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