It does not need to end in God

Back in January seeds started flowing
From the balcony.

On Sunday we read
The poems of the deaf and
Watched the matches stumble
Drunkenly through the darkness.

In March my hips began to
Fill out like my mother’s.

A monsoon of bullet ants
Waged war along the perimeter of the bath.
I squashed three under my thumb.
Hide, I told them. I have dropped mercy off the edge of the hanging bridge.

In May the stars were soft,
The ants came back to bite me in my sleep.

I tried to clasp your nose to keep you warm
But all the heat had flown from our bodies.
Sacrifices were made along the way.
The ants, admittedly, least among them.

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