It was spring
the day I galloped
from my mother’s wound.
I was an accident, she said.
but she swaddled me in trinkets anyway.
In the maternity ward,
where she mused over her flaccid belly,
stitched lovingly tight like a football,
she happed to glance out the window
where a strolling couple paused
and embraced on the park’s path.
Hand in hand, the lovers passed.
That was an accident, too.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
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