“That’s exactly what I said, my dear,” said she.
She permitted herself the little endearment now and then with an ironical inflection, as one fearful of being robbed might show a diamond pretending that it was paste. – E. Nesbit, The Incomplete Amorist, 1906
there are certain places,
crossroads,
that are somehow haunted
by the memory
of you, though you’re not
even dead.
when I was in my mid-30s, a man –
one with a degree
in how my lady bits
worked – explained to me
how my body
was only meant to make
so many homes
for the babies
that never arrived.
