Poetry

This is not about being bitter.

Before you were born, I was in love. I tasted
the salt of the ocean on my lips, saw the horizon framed
in wet eyelashes. Looked sideways at
young men sidling softly closer. Moved
shoreward and away. Coy.

Before you were born, I wrote poems. They were largely
bad ones. When you were still
wearing diapers,
I fell madly badly
deeply in love.
Fell harder out
of that love before you even started daycare.

Before you picked up a pen
I had lost. Lost entire worlds.
A heart. A soul. A family.

If anyone wonders, perhaps I could say
something about being grateful to be alive.
And that would be a truth I learned
before you were born.

Kaw April 09