104.

We rose from dust on a day not of our

Choosing, the wind on our mothers’ brows

Cut lines, the glaciers were receding

Imperceptibly, and we shrieked

Not knowing who we were. There was nothing

Socratic about the doctors; the nurses

Dreamt of love, perhaps, but were too practical

And their sensible shoes imposed stereotype

And the wolves in the canyons were long silent.

The trees had been cut, although no one

Spoke of hell, not even in hushed tones.

Lover and beloved could not talk then

And our lungs, whichever we were, thrilled more

For air than for metaphysical hyperbole.