What Never Was Said

You have just learned to walk, and they
will take you from me,
gas you to sleep,
slice and stitch your flesh
with sterile instruments of steel.

I cannot see you, hear your breath,
wake you should you cease to breathe.
I do not trust their tools, the precision
of their passion. I see you naked,
stretched out beneath an ice-blue lamp,
your warmth escaping in waves.

Yesterday we wrestled on the carpet.
I pinned you down, chewed on your belly
while you batted at my head, shrieked
a spark from your heart to mine.

Today, they will take all that
away from us. You will disappear, and I
will stand outside.
Light a cigarette, blow smoke
into the wind. Turn toward the window.
Nothing inside, and no reflection.

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