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The longing for lost things
begins as you do.

Your mother was more mobile
before you filled her belly.
She lost her balance
along with sleep
and shape
and random acts of selfishness.

It’s strange;
even though
we breathe loss
into our forming lungs
before air enables a scream,
the falling tide of life
only seems to remind us
we were made for more than this.

Perhaps this longing
is the eternal flint
that strikes against
the sharp edges of loss.

Perhaps this flame in our chest
for a saviour of sorts
must be welcomed
if our screams
are to become
songs of hope.


David Tensen