Poetry

End

She trots across the room
with baby blue jeans and pink shoes
with bulbous brown eyes she looks up at you

with glossy lips from the spoonfuls of squash
you feed her, I see it now, her lusc-
-ious kisses stain you with blush

a never ending warmth
like the first sip of tea or broth
or the first sunrise to welcome the new month

and with every sunrise, the sun sets
day after day it rests
to remind me it’s

the end,

her trots
my thoughts
her gloss-

-y lips that can’t talk
her pudgy legs that won’t walk
all for reasons I cannot

comprehend or begin to explain
the anger, the rage, the frustration, the pain
it boils, it emulsifies, it defiles, it reverberates

throughout the empty, dark corners of me.
We never met you but we love you, our sweet honey bee.

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