Preeclampsia

They are running
Through the fields and the tall green grass that should be itchy
But they don’t know that, so it isn’t.

They are holding hands
And tripping over ideas that are too fast for their
Feet to catch, let alone their minds.

The sweet taste of youth is in their mouths
Though they don’t savor it, they don’t
Know what anything else tastes like.

They are of the age before words like savor
Mean anything. Before they go through the inevitable
Process of nostalgia, and then the process of

Realizing nostalgia is truly hollow. They are so
Enamored by each other’s dance with the fading
Sunlight that they can’t imagine the things they will

Eventually figure out are useless. They run the
Racetrack outlined by matted down weeds and rocks
Not the one we are all tricked into running by

Thought and reason, that combination is a treason
At least when wielded by those as incompetent as
Us, betraying the soft smiles and curious eyes

Of the two children who are running through
Fields outside your window. And you somehow
Find it within yourself to remember to forget

Everything you ever learned
You feel a kick and your stomach churns
And you finally return

The white walls are not the
Same. The scrubs of the nurse attempt to
Feign the same flowers you saw your

Babies run through. One more week
Then they say they’ll induce
Everything is looking hopeful they say

Though you can’t help but feel the truth
Is it paranoia or true intuition
When you wrap two lives up into a single suspicion

They may never make it to those fields to
Run. To teach you lessons through imagined
Songs sung. And though you hope, your

Fear follows you out to the car
But you were able to make it this far
And you close your eyes in silent

Desperation. “God, I know too little
Too lead this life you gave.
Please see my little loves through,

Let them channel Your light
Let them guide me
When dark is the way.”

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