Sunday, 29 April 2012

28: Tokophobia

Two hundred and seventy four days these
cells dividing and multiplying, these cells
conspiring to fill a cave that had no need
for bears or fires or footsteps.

That Easter my brother taught us how
to blow an egg from the shell. We watched
the yolk and albumen dribble,
my mother scowled at the mess.

Well, sometimes people are just two distracted
drivers who bump on the road and spend
the rest of their lives filling out the forms.

Tokophobia is the terror of being
torn apart by a departing human. And I don’t
blame you for not stopping.

Your foot twitched on the accelerator,
black claw marks on the road.

I stand here waiting by the cave door.
I watch you flee.

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