How for elongated nail-biting seconds
I can't find
the dark mop of soaked hair.
Once I lost him
in a store, aisles and endless aisles
of panic ensued, the floor spun
into a whirlpool of blurred tile.
Circles of loss, small buttons
of me disappearing with each passing second.
Even after I heard his cry,
that tone-specific inflection mama,
pieces of me were so far gone,
I could not get them back.
Maureen Sherbondy lives in Raleigh with her husband and three sons. She writes poetry and fiction.