My Friends

These four women who may know of
each other but don't know each other, only me,
whom I hold close, like spokes to a wheel, rolling
down hills, valleys, and rough patches.
These four women, of whom only two have wombs—
I never mourned the loss but wondered where the ashes went
after the hospital discharge while they celebrated.
These four women who may know of each other
but don’t know each other, see pieces of each other
as I speak, for I am just bits of them,
strung together, and a single guitar pluck
could tear me apart.