Two Letters Two letters from the girl who loved him first I cherish, in a way he never would, though giving them, he said ironically here was the part of him I’d never have. But reading them again, I know I am within his first love, like a Russian doll, and that her womb, grown wooden, split to bring me to him, vision not so vast as are first visions, but more fragile still and still more gently to be looked upon. And in the way that she and I are one, if one day I break too, another love, more delicate and deep, I know he’ll find growing inside his memory of me, and loving her, my love will love us three.
Kristin Camitta Zimet
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