Placed on my mother’s chest
In my sharp inhales of screaming, I must have sensed it.
Perhaps women are made to labor, if only to produce something
So immediately human
As a welcome.
A hot day, hand in hand.
I kissed my love
And there’s the taste.
In back-breaking effort,
A swig from a bottle
Catches a bit
And
Hello, old friend.
And, in a dear one’s end, I kissed her brow
And acknowledged it as a mark of humanity
A bosom friend.
