The pictures tell me you walked
across the floors barefoot,
your belly swollen and heavy.

You wore the patchwork dress
with the peasant sleeves
and packed your clothes at dusk.

This time it was real and rolling
under your stretched skin.
No one would keep you from it.

And then came the hours
of your sweat-soaked forehead
and the doctor who tickled your feet

to make sure you still had feeling,
your arched spine and the bed linens
that draped over the edges.

You knew then you would never
have to be alone again,
that I would replace everyone who left.

05/25/2012

Posted on 05/25/2012
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