Sitting in the deep pupil of a blue eye
Tree branch eyelashes overhanging
The eye that turns black at night
The puddle in which I sit
Holds me at my waist
Like I was held as a baby
Lifted over my parent’s heads
Laughing in that magical way
That you gradually forget
That gleeful giggle
That would bounce off
These cobblestone curves
The sweet sound
That I can no longer make
That last day
That I could be lifted
But it is the same throat
The same waist
The same comfort
Of being held
I can wash the well’s water from my body
But I cannot wash the skin from my bones.
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