Joy Ladin
A variation on “Ein Leben,” by Dan Pagis
Photo: amyrod1
I’m standing at the window,
a young woman, I can’t remember what age
or so my slumping shoulders say
to the child fading behind me,
staring up at the slender
spire of mother
who still from his angle
shimmers a little, growing slowly toward him
like an icicle above his head.
By now he must know
I won’t answer him.
I wonder if sometimes
he holds me in his hands,
wondering what it is I wanted,
what expression he would see
if I turned my head.
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