I could tell that it was mine
by Francisco R. Albano
just by its tail teasing me in the wind.
My fingers were clumsy, perhaps,
without the power of this stranger's
hands containing the violence,
the freedom of the dream, the death
that destined it to be my captive
virgin untaintable by recall.
Is the child not to die?
Must tears flow forever
and the forgotten dream replaced
by another, and still another?
This is a cruel pattern,
entangles being once, twice, thrice.