I-III
IV
V
VI
VII.
His body is a steam shovel
in the mornings, screeching,
rattling to life, emitting fumes,
waking me at ungodly hours.
My body is a wasteland, or
so he says. I give him
a look, and he is quiet.
Hope has a way with words.
He wants a son, but does not
trust me to give him gifts anymore.
He gave me a crystal crane
two days belated; I love it, but
I cannot help thinking
that before we were glass
we were sand between
someone else's fingers.
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