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Lisa Zaran

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I count them.
Reach two hundred
and twenty and lose
my place.

Fret at not finding
two more. Two hundred
and twenty two,
a quiet triple number

with soft connotations.
Perhaps, a sweet

I'm a dead observer.
I stare at the sky.
My children sleep,
nestled into dreams

I have no part of.
I pour another drink
and start again.

Originally published in The Arabesques Review, June 2007, © Lisa Zaran