I push space into those joints
wanting to ease the pain, but still, they creak--
they mouthe lullabies. Or should I say, she--
the baby I never--is crying: a ghost
lodged in my very center. And my hips,
made to carry this babe's weight,
ache from the years of waiting,
and do what all good cradles
do: rock the child to sleep,
as she's hushed with this song.
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