It
is the only photograph
he
has of her, his mother,
and
not a real photograph but
instead
a poor reproduction
printed
in a cheap newspaper
the
day after she died
(“unidentified
woman found
shot
to death”) in a bullet
storm
that passes for gang
justice.
He looks at the body
in
the photograph, bullet-spackled,
the
photograph folded and creased,
fading,
tucked within small plastic.
He
can’t remember her voice but
he
can remember the sound
of
the bullets.
Photograph by George Hodan via Public
Domain Pictures. Used with permission.
4 comments:
Nice turn in the middle of this poem. It carries and evokes a lot of sadness.
what is real to us
becomes folded
and hidden
from memory
within wrinkles
of time
How sad and tragic . . . but, beautifully done as always, Glynn.
this just makes my heart hurt. well done.
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