we were never old enough
to know them as they were;
how I wish I had been just as old
as she and he were; to sit
across the rug from them and say
now tell me the story of your life,
don’t miss out anything..
how could I then not love you more,
you strangers whom I fought to be
myself; where were yourselves the while?
*
I’m crumpling this poem in
my salty hand and throwing it
into the wind whose wisdom
may dropp it at your feet;
your feet I never washed;
would wash now with my tears;
and then, perhaps, wash history
clean, with touched hands, shared laughter;
as clean now as ever after.

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