for G.

i cannot quantify you
for your spirit is untraceable in her blood
the glance around a corner
the rustle of a morning paper in your hands

the pain of the quotidian
is an absent ache
that she houses in her cells
each of which bears the double-helix twine
forged steel-strong
in the fire of her grief

a glance in the mirror
and suddenly you are there
etching yourself once again
into the face you gently crafted

you, who offered life to her
born again each day
as the water of her grief breaks
a child’s quickening: tears

would that she knew
the beauty
in the pooling tenderness
of her bruises


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