In the inbetween time,
the meantime
when you wait for the pain to stop,
the congestion to clear,
something to pass.
Long periods of indecision
followed by a flurry of panicked action.
Exhaustive measures
after exhausting nothingness.
The miserable day isn’t helping –
a logy stasis trapped in time.

Meanwhile, the next generation is languishing.
The one you thought was safe.
The one you thought could pull from those before and after her.
She is trapped in her own middle space.

And you can’t pull either one of you out.