October 4, 2012


From old albums,
I see my mother
after high school,
imagine her walking shyly
with my father,
dating, necking, producing
somehow, finally, me.
In photos she looks
wary, tired of guys
hitting on her, bored
by another inept line.
Her letters reveal
a secret, expectant life,
how her unborn son
is taking over,
like a more knowing lover,
already practicing ruin,
having seduced her,
now kicking, marching,
pillaging his way
to the sea.