Wednesday, June 6, 2012


Mother will vanish like sleet,
cool, prickly sensations
on the tongue you cannot taste.

Memory lingers after
her body drifts down
the hall and out the door.

Impossible to recover
the sense of embrace,
the cord of birth's binding.

Receding into sepia
within an ornate frame,
dimensions collapse.

You become an orphan
that three-quarters of a century
cannot place in a foster home.

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