We are all alone.
She caressed my cheek.
And I thought that she
Was talking about death.
And I felt threatened in
My child’s body.
She felt hopeless to me.
But she tried to comfort me.
That I’ll always have myself.
My thoughts, my body, my determination.
The end of it all always seemed the same
To me though. The bitterness after everything
Had tasted so sweet.
“June” by John White Alexander (1856-1915)
Croque-Melpomene 