I must have been a saint
in a previous life
basted sweet sweetly
sugar-rimmed burnt to
the pan of heat hot
scalded sticky with
pure, pure love
like I love my
kids – like I love
the fade of sun
to moon; the melt
of snow to spring
he loves
me and I look
to him, at him
through him
and I swear, I
must have been
a saint in a
previous
life.










