one day when you are fourteen
you will come home from school and find me in the kitchen
sitting on the bench, crying, playing Indelible
and pour me wine while I finish.

when you hop up beside me
I will tell you that even now
when I love myself the most of so far –
that even today when I hear those lines –
I wonder how your dad could do it.
how could someone so beautiful / feel anything for me?

you’ll tell me that the girls in your class skipped lunch again today
and looked envyful at the sandwich
you so bravely stomached and enjoyed.
you’ll tell me you thought about joining them;
you don’t think you’re thin enough for Sam.

I’ll pour you a half-glass to match mine.
you’ll hold my hand.
we are reflected as we reflect:
your eyes in my own;
my face in the curve of your cheek.
we’ll sigh for an age together,
our accidental harmony each of courage and concern.

(I think we might spend our lives breathing our reminders:
it doesn’t go away,
it’s never just you,
how strong we are become.
as long as we keep. breathing.)

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