Fingernails on a Newborn
Perhaps, We have become replaceable. Tossed between not one thing, but many. The soft fingernails on a newborn, the laughter in a corner table. Or perhaps, the hot grease splatters leftover on your favorite white v-neck.
Still, we can replace moments, and softly overlap them with new. Smoke Signals to turn us away from where we last stood, heavy.
Mama asks if we took the shot before the conditions were right? I shake my head, as if this hot wind blew a strand in my eye. I wonder if conditions would have ever been right to take the risks we took.
To ignore a beating heart. And,
To spit out emotions as if they were phlegm. Useless. Ordinary. Nothings.