October 11, 2015

Scrapbook


In a last photo
I find in a box,
my mother stares out
through hollow orbs,
still stuck in this frame
so long after
she has gone,
her face trapped
behind broken glass,
revealing her longing,
though we don't stare back
so much, anymore,
accepting
she made her own pact
with god, her future
secured somehow,
overwhelming us forever,
with her silence;
we dare not
ask for more.