her mother once told her,
we will spin, always
around and around, but
never realize that we aren't
going anywhere

now she wonders if she can
still be
her mother's child, if
she could still be from a place dissolved
in water, fire and air

mothballs frame a discarded sweater
(it took her a month and 
three days
to knit, pink yarn 
unraveling, unraveling)

they glaze the photograph, dust and
and pain

she knows it will never come
away on her fingers, because
that is who we were

this is what we've become.

somewhere, an egg hatches; 
somewhere, someone stumbles across
a dirt road. 

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in the wake of light, your words bring me more(please, do leave your fingerprints behind, so I may relish the image of our hands after you go.)