Her

Long after the force of recall
Fades
It lays embedded in the banks
Of the subconscious.

The mother has withered away
But her eggs
Spawn infant remnants
Of her DNA.
Occasionally found in excrements
After consumption.

Too small to notice
But upon closer observation
You see
Them squirm
In the crevices
Of shit.

I wish
I never
Read
Her
Poetry.

But I would not have
Grown to love
Writing
As much as I do
If I had never met her.

Probably

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