18
by Ezra Fern
my pain is born(e) in the blood of my mother,
who wanted to create something beautiful
and then die
she says,
tells me through her silently wilted affectation,
i have spent so long amplifying the voices of others
that i have lost my own
i have loss
i have lost
i am los(t)
i am quiet,
but it is oh so loud
i now realize,
cruelly,
that i am doomed to long for a woman
who i do not/will never know
for she
has lost her
self
in the current,
the building,
the maintenance,
of Others
(we can never escape for we are the builders)