Another Day in March

I’m having your
miscarriage is the worst
song title since the one
that begins
dyslexic. Sometimes I do

the math. To torture
myself, yes, but more
to torture the memory
of a daughter (not son)
that never got constructed

to be forgotten. I carry
this bus transfer
from a Monday morning
in March with me
in my purse to be

a birthday card
to my 23-year-old child.

To be memento mori
for you and me.

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