Amoeba

Amoeba—a libra,
Never-born ballerina.
She’s the thorn of a thistle,
Conceived on a cliff while
The sea below whistles.

A condom forgotten.
Cares are thrown like the cotton
Clothes that ride the waves like
My hips on your body
Or sails in the haze.

Amoeba—a thieve of
Any chance to achieve love.
She’s the life that was taken,
Conceived on a cliff in
A moment mistaken.

For you are regretting
With my mind pirouetting
On the top of her grave so
That she could be free—the
One gift that we gave her.