the death rattle
would come
so soon after
the plastic one
was gifted
as a hand-me-down.
i did not know
you would be stolen in an afternoon,
soaked
before a summer vacation.
how dare anyone do this to you.
to deny you the discomfort
of growing into
odd features,
gaps in smiles, fixed.
no. instead,
you were stolen.
no one had that right.
and out will come
the phrases
we have heard before,
about heaven
gaining little angels,
about prayers,
"let me know if you need anything,"
"i am so sorry for your loss,"
and none of these
words, these deaths
will serve
as a unifying action, just
separate fingers
dancing, as they do,
across little keys,
until we say enough.
how many are enough
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