Writers

He grabbed his notes from
the underground, fingers brushing
over her moribund body,
the body without the womb,
the womb that didn’t belong.
She got up.
They trudged in winter
inchmeal, hand in hand, holding
words like white dwarfs, to
the suffocated woman
in the kitchen. Then
to the man with the wounded
arm and little tragedies.

And they all
collaborated with me
on this poem.