there is the absence
she feels, sometimes, on
cold sunday mornings
when the rain makes a sheet
of blurs on her window
the mirror she looks into reminds
her of lost beginnings and broken
endings. no, i don't suppose
it was meant to be that way
she was meant to feel those
footprints on the smooth lines
on her hand, and not remain stuck
inside the belly.
today, like most sundays her husband
sits outside on the porch and reads his
newspaper, but even she knows
that every five minuteshis head swings past in the direction
of the father and son playing together
on the wet grass, wishing for
better memories.