a souvenir for my babies

maybe it was you who put the
daffodil under my window
didn’t you hear what I said?
I could not pick it up
I could not read the intention
and fathom the death
or live with your ghost

you, in my history,
should remain an unjustified
anecdote, but what is rumor
if not meant to tease those
whose eyes would better be
blind?

maybe it was you I meant
to write on the pages
with a borrowed pen and
a tender rub on the skin
maybe it was you I shared
a bed with, on the day when
everybody else was sleeping
maybe it was us who lay awake,
active, restless,
always wanting to run,
always wanting to fly

maybe it was me who wanted
to perch on your tree
maybe it was me who walked
across your way only to be
murdered, maybe it was you
who read the ill signs
then spread the rumors

what are rumors if not
for us to expose and hide
and continue living?

others, in our history,
should remain blind

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