Typing out the stings of bees;
the songs that dead crickets
sing with broken wings…

I write next to a pastor,
railing on the teachings of
The Christ and all I can
think of is the sea of amniotic
fluid that flew across the room
and splashed my sister-in-law’s
shoes.

(yielding babies born still)

Where was god
when we needed him?

All we had was each other
and twins we’d never meet.

*

-JBClaywell

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