The little girl came to me, with
fever in her eyes. She laid her
sweaty palm on my breast.
"Let me drink from you", she whispered.
Her hollow eyes hurting.
Sick, but effervescent, she
cupped her parched lips, and from me
took a drink.

For hours, she laid herself out in my
lap. "Can I call you mother?", she asked.

I looked at her and smiled. I said nothing.
I think she knew me. I think she understood.

I sat with my arms wrapped around her innocence.
Her fever subsided and she stained my dress
with her sweat, leaving me
marked and tattooed, in a mystery of motherhood

And then, she packed up her bags and left.