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)

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