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Mother, last year’s baby, this year’s baby.

Three old diaries

sit on my desk,

three pale red, red

and light brown books

small enough to

fit in the palm

of my hand, so

small little could

be recorded,

like three bubbles

of the gas that,

stuck in ice cores,

tells us of the

air long ago,

but nothing else.

It was a time

when I was young

and life had not

yet unfolded –

would be nice to

know more than that

I was breathing.