Drunken slurs.
A woman once was
The funny caricature in her ex-lover's poem
She sat feet outstretched in winter wind
On a January midnight
Old Monk in her hands
A glass with a square base
Fit into her hands like magic
Ice cubes clinked 
And it was all that moved
She spoke in indistinct 
Drunken slurs
As he drew her that night

Eight years later,
That ex-lover is a father
Of the child of another woman
And everyday, he dotes
On his naive daughter,
Who knows not one bit
Of what life holds
And packs her lunch box,
With the purple butterflies on it
And takes her pictures

The woman with the Old Monk
Eight years later,
Down the line, or so
Contemplates freezing Old Monk 
Into cubes in the tray, to drink that then
Such that it doesn't water down
And that her passing out each night
Take not as long

The woman tries to write a poem
About the new daughter, and the butterflies
And the utter obscenity of fates and heartache
Her drunken slurs, not much coherent.

The passage of eight years
Has been as cruel as healing
Everything happens for a reason
And yet, for no reasons at all. 

How they became whoever they did,
They would never know. 
But they did become their own.
Anathema. Anathema. Anathema. 

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