Place of Birth / Place of Death
When the bicycle
bell rings twice at the door
I get up in a rush
forgetting that your cycle
is there in a store room
locked up
and it couldn’t possibly be you, my son.
The truth strikes me
even before, my head spinning,
I turn the handle of the door.
The summer sun is blinding.
I pray it is the postman who rang
his bell twice. Sometimes, it is.
Your letters come each week.
I am sorry I don’t write often.
And when I do
I can only speak
of waiting and loneliness.
These choices, somehow, were never mine.
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