I know loss.
It plunges a fist,
clenches and twists
Its fist,
Wringing every last drop,
Wringing almost dry
The twisted remains.

But she
In her unlined newness,
Only yet slightly marked by a girl’s yearning,
Unfamiliar with the gnarled strength,
wrenching, twisting,
Doubles over, reels gasping.

Now, the great maw opens.

Loss, no!
Not her
Not now
Not her!

Falling, she finds the scented shroud,
Entombs herself.
His place vacant now
As before.
Now the bier,
Her childhood readied
For the pyre.

Loss, no!
Not her
Not now
Not this girl.

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