Soka: A Triptych

It wasn't my womb

that slid you out into the sun.

But for all of your earth-kneaded days

we have shared you son-like

your blooming to beauty

a constant song on our lips.

When your story plunged

into a denouement ere the first half

of our book we stopped writing

our ink refusing to run.

That your bowl of life was smaller

than ours scissors justice itself.

Your mother asks me her maternal

status – childless/barren/bereaved?

I write “child-marked” upon her palm.

Though relatives stayed long enough

to help her with tenses and convert

your “is” into “was” she refuses to learn.

Who holds you in the world beyond

she often wants to know. Her evenings

bare kerchiefs with you around

are now nine-yard bandages she lets

herself bleed in. Could things have been

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