I’m lungs stilled after the final exhale,
the last child in a world of adults.
The wind in the winter with no leaves to rustle,
a cicada who emerged one year too late.
I’m daughter to a father who has only sons,
a mother whose dreams folded with Thursday’s laundry.
Could there be greater suffering than for a lover of words to lose her language?
Whisper to me once more and I’ll learn yours…