Go find each other.
Weep that you are first and last,
the broken beaker and the empty glass.
You were not wanted simple, middle,
last-born child and the second fiddle.
Hold hands, dry tears, do not exclaim
that wrinkled foreheads are a loosing game,
but laugh. Rejoice
that this is your stone alone, to try
to be something other than a lover’s cry
at night when the taxis don’t come.
That is all, no alarm.
Leave what is gone and find what is won
and you shall be wealthy and happy and long
in thrall with yourself,
and not some other beast.
© 2015 Anna-Christina Betekhtin, All Rights Reserved.