They Try To Erase Me

I never had been born. It was old hands
that sketched my frame. Hands that knew how to suffer
wisely. It was a gift
to my bones, a curse that shifts
with weight and time.
Clocks wait on scales to tip time. I am rushed.
Blood cycles through my life.
Old lines outline my eyes. I am timed.

I slept with a man
and was traced. He recreated me; my child.
My simple face on a prettier canvas.
I didn’t wish for this.
I didn’t dream.
She just belongs to me.
I drag my bones along aching seas
each step pains deeper with memory,
with time.
Dark lines shade over mine.
They try to erase me

From my bones, I cry.
I cannot be
an easy sketch of a memory.

Who Is The Empty One

The baby’s swing
swinging emptily
swinging next to me

watching the empty
swing –
back and forth
swinging steadily

the baby’s swing
swinging melodically
listening lethargically
as it swings next to me
the baby’s swing
swinging emptily

squeaking and creaking
and looking at me
watching me
sit so emptily.