Magdalene (22)

Anne, my dear,
I never told you
That you slipped
Out of me
Like an old comb
From a back pocket.

A strong sense
I had then
That you didn’t
Beg to be born
But would move
Between city street lights,
Unhurried, unperturbed.

Finished Products,”
You called them
At ten
Confident, as always,
That things would be
What they would be
And no more.

Unless,” as you said,
At sixteen,
They weren’t.”

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