The child who was not
Much beyond a little matter
Grew in my mind more than the five weeks

Where she had lived starkly in warmth.
I had her removed early
On a Thursday morning in September

Of nineteen ninety-six.
That distance is now
Inseparable from sky to ground

For she who knew
Daylight as darkness only.
She was a small mass of cells,

The forehead of a raindrop,
A gathering of what would not be.
I really can’t get rid of her, though.

She follows me so closely.
Being nothing, she will always live
Where being as no thingness
Continues to grow.