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by Magdalena Ball

Every moment is risky.

There’s no mistaking the signs
fingers crawling about
in bed, a sigh, another sigh
the ennui of loss
tossing me left and right.

It’s easy to dismiss all this as
my neurosis
and you’d be right
as you’re always right
but you know
though neither of us has words
to say it, my vulnerabilities
as intimately as the inside
of your own wrists
and cherish them.

You can wave a finger
and I might cry in the bathroom
but at the end of the day
when I choke out the last poem
we’re fighting the same fight.

Writing as I breathe
until I can’t

itching and fighting
grief has always been
the flipside of love
the deep current in the ocean
water flowing always
even as we age, we crumble
our bodies already dust.

Those long nights
between wailing and motion
these long days
of peace and pain
a memory only, an imprint
and permanent.