[Rilke's sad child]

Each day was no different.

The matter came to light;

 

pain slipped down the body,

and in the taut brilliance

 

of the sun, sadness

crawled out of my head,

 

small and yellow. She didn't

make a sound, but stared ahead,

 

stock-still, especially pretty,

aware that I was watching her.

 

She was just a child. I made

to graze my fingers over

 

her thigh, tense muscle

hugging the shallow curve

 

of hip. She was statue-hard,

stupendous. She asked me why

 

the pond's ghost held the day

so stoically, looking out the

 

window, and felt my forehead.

I shook her out of my hair.

 

A woman came to retrieve her.

They left a lack of space

 

inside me, an eye opening like

a wheel peeling off the earth.

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