One, may as well be twenty, might as well be
once every forty-three hundred and five
years for all the difference it would make. Me,
I wish that I could be alive for two, too:
two two two two two two two two two two two
two—centuries later, but what’s in a day?
Aren’t they all the same? Take them at a time,
as many as you like; they won’t change for you.
The same with people, the same with breaths, the same
rules apply: take a unique species and see
if it can’t be multiplied, made better, made
into more uniqueness each day all the same.
Once I had a bear, a hospital bear, bought
in the gift shop downstairs the day I was born,
rescued from a shelf of similar itselves.
The toys shared the same customizable shirts—
pink for the girls; blue for the boys—and a few
dollars more afforded each identical
distinctiveness. All of these twin and triplet
and hendeuplet stuffed cubs held in their fur
the desire to love and be loved. Most were
as soft and looked exactly the same, but this
bear bore my name, and it was the only one.