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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