You look so very young

       standing there,

       wearing his clothes.

Such fear

in your

              Question:

   Is this what you want?

Impossible not to feel

      like a mother

when I shush you,

           smile

and tell you

                   Yes.

And then I can no longer

            touch you,

unwrap you –

No mother this,

          that has nails

          and teeth

that ache to be used,

And a pulsing,

tasted

Fury.

The soft smile

        leaves you cold,

        as if you can catch

an echo beneath it

           of a scream.

And the truth is

        that I don’t want you,

              but I need you,

to breathe life into

                  a

plastic shadow

        of his flesh.

And so we stand –

       with between us a

weight

       of years, that is

not age –

        and it will never be crossed -

when to forge it

     you would need to lose,

          and to lose,

                 and to mourn.

Even in the cruelty

     of my anger,

I could not

   want it.