Poetry | November 08, 2019

Spring Teatime, 4 o’clock 

We sit in the west courtyard. We chat about the times we have nearly died over our long lifetimes. Death is a tossed stone. Memory is a pool. The melanoma incident. The two bloody births. The numerous fatal car accidents mitigated or avoided. The angioplasty. Open-heart surgeries. Several resistant staph infections. Three muggings at gunpoint. My estranged husband’s attack with axe. We omit our dire childhood diseases, too long ago for consideration.

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