She can hardly breathe,
choking on sobs.
A child’s birth, forgotten.
A child’s death, gone too.
Who am I?
Who am I?
I stroke her hand.
You’re still a mother.
You’re still Marla.
That stuff doesn’t change.
Everything has changed.
I just can’t remember.
I hold her in my arms.
Her body judders.
And by the time she has cried herself to sleep
she has forgotten what her tears
were about in the first place.