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In the future, we know everything.
We communicate without boundaries,
We comfort from the unknown of our hearts,
We love as if we were always the wiser.
It’s a degree of perfection, (probably from past failures)?
No longer do we search for time in each other’s faces.
We gather round a pool of eternity.
We set our minds free from exasperation
And the depth of deaths in the present.
There’s a haven and within, a familiarity,
A constant incidence of urgency
Where abandonment flourished
Yet, within, the unconditional, forgotten
And we left behind the skeletons in the closet
The transitional skin of metamorphosis
And out the cocoon we became the butterflies of love
Our parents could only dream of.
(a.k.a Ines Garcia)
In the future, we are tender.
We temper our irreverence
It’s, like, slightly wonderful.
We pronounce magic
like we’re from Michigan,
and all our mothers continue
mothering, like harbors,
There’s a sense of indeterminacy
with mothering and we take
Life is dangerous, wild, and yet
we welcome it.
We’re in therapy.
It’s called water.