Once again her horror crowds you,
as if you've never had your own
bit of balcony to teeter on
while those around you slept.
She's aged, but still the child
neither snuffed nor expanded,
grown like breath into a balloon.
You receive her phone calls,
nodding dumbly into the receiver
when she crumples the past
like trash in the can, then
accuses you of betraying her
feelings, her feelings.
You remember what she refuses
to: the snap and lick of time
moving furiously over you;
the slap in the face;
the secret word you finally drew
from something like her vein.
Her expression when you told
her, wooden spoon arrested
above the inherited pot, her
face half guilty. Only half.
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