by Tova Feldmanstern

i imagine the crumbling of a cookie or a cracker
into parts so small that birds flock to eat them
all at once, a community of birds, each delighted

i remember the afternoon they told me it was over
14 weeks pregnant with twins; suddenly hollowed,
how the nurses each told me a story of their own

or the way a candle seems to burn a little brighter
in the final moments before it’s extinguished, as if
to prove it won’t give up without its making point

every old t-shirt, faded pair of jeans, worn blanket
which no longer serves its original function, then
serves a holier purpose, as the ultimate reminder

that there will be a day when one of us wakes up
to find the other gone, considers leaving too, but
finds a way, somehow, to do our undoing justice



Tova Feldmanstern lives on Ohlone lands in the San Francisco Bay Area with her wife and cat and practices clinical social work. Her writing has appeared in print and online journals including Pithead Chapel, Thirty West, Healing Muse, Deep Wild, Panoply, Gravitas, and Peregrine.

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