![Yellow and red smoke](https://mldihohglpug.i.optimole.com/qMgxKVE.mXpJ~46095/w:auto/h:auto/q:75/https://astra-mag.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/10/amir-esrafili-yMFZrFkkhww-unsplash-1-scaled.jpg)
My friend was born
with six fingers on each hand.
Do I need to tell you
that she is generous?
Whereas I could have bit
my tongue out each time my means
seemed to diminish.
My pride like a golden stag.
Some never feel loved or real, just
goaded,
or thwarted. It is a slow fire in an autumn wood.
My soul does a little
flip in my chest, stands with its back
to the wood.
It wants to watch me struggle, I guess.
It’s leading me some distance away from
my uninteresting remorse,
and into the sweet stupor of absorption, as I fit
myself
to what actually happens in my life.