I look at her swiftly moving hands
through scattered strands of hair,
I stare at her lips trying to read words
as she murmurs syllables,
I wonder if she is in her teens this time
when her mother wore angel-white
or in her mid-twenties
when a toothbrush broke in her mouth
with a lightning strike
I wonder if she's in the year
when unthinkable happened
or when flying it was that
her chicks learned.

I wonder if she is even there,
I reckon she is not.

© lonely_geek