Saturday, April 12, 2014

The photograph

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.


Maureen said...

Nice turn in the middle of this poem. It carries and evokes a lot of sadness.

Anonymous said...

what is real to us
becomes folded
and hidden
from memory
within wrinkles
of time

Martha Jane Orlando said...

How sad and tragic . . . but, beautifully done as always, Glynn.

diana said...

this just makes my heart hurt. well done.