Make Each One Count

She rolled her memories like pebbles in water

And found them cold.

She tasted her love as she grew,

She learned to pick the sinews and gristle

Out and the length to chew it into something tender.

She found her soul:

Filagree glass cored with light.

She counted her children on her fingers

And unfurled lengths of pictures of narratives she'd forgotten.

Counts of ages added hash marks to her skin.

Her eyes ate the images in magazines,

Hungered at her young's youth

And made her smile ache.

Every piece she counted, she collected

In crystalline language

Stored in lengths of light in dreams.

She was justified, that Just If I

Could Be Every Of The Other Happy Girls

Every Of Them Might Be Me.

The End

8 comments about this poem Feed