Mama, I was named
after a dead boy. Someone
took my name before
I was born. My father
left me before he met
me. It has been months
now since my last blood.
My grandmother died
in my old bedroom.
I am living in her old
bedroom. Why do you
seem so surprised when
I can't grab joy like a hand?
YOU ARE READING
THE TWENTY SECOND YEAR
PoetryAt birth, we are all sentenced to life- to live. Highest Rankings: #4 in poembook #4 in poemcollection © z. t. corley, 2024
