Trying to be

As the years pass, I have grown more aware

of all of the things I seem unable to write about

love, for one thing. I don’t know how

to write anything convincing about love.

As my children grow up and my husband gets older

I grow more and more resigned to the things I can’t feel

love, especially, I don’t think I know what it is.

If I sit and analyze my heart

I’m uncomfortably aware of this pantomime of caring

my fake day-to-day. This is something

I can write about:

my shortcomings as a human.

The things I haven’t done.

All of my lies.