~ after Linda Pastan I have not yet learned that lesson of abandoning the world, of letting fall the various claims we make on each other as though it were our right as humans. If I were a tree, I might be the one that hasn't quite shed its overgrowth of foliage despite the blight worked by heat, the blasts fired by winter. Sometimes I feel like a small insistent animal pushing its head into your lap, circling your ankles, angling for a crumb of forgiveness or love. Though the moon floats in the sky as if it's worked free of its own tethers, still I feel the tidal pulse go through me as if it were an umbilical cord uncut. And in the dark I tense, anticipating the sterile blades' descent, fearful of the moment you might turn away, wanting nothing more to do with me.
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