Susan UttingSusan Utting 


Third Time

Simple division, accretion, bundle of cells,
begun at the body's whim, this was nothing
to climb in the loft for, nothing to polish

the chrome of the foldable chassis, buff up
its wheels, bounce for the squeak of its springs -
this was nothing to get out the three-in-one oil for.

This was the one-in-three chance, statistically
average and nothing to patchwork a quilt for.
All I knew were the others, the two who were

tried for, agnostically prayed for, who'd listened,
taken heed of my mantras of please, please, the ones
who'd come right. This was a blip in the plan,

one in the eye for the happy, a might-have-been,
could-have-been con trick. This was still
something made out of loving; this was still loss.

from "New Poems" section of Half the Human Race (Two Rivers Press 2017)

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