But I cannot hold
a memory in two hands,
like your face
against my white palms–
how am I expected
to keep what I cannot hold true?
A task once termed remarkable
for a storyteller,
for a young mother documenting
their baby’s first crawl,
their first step, their first fall
I cannot fall in love
with but a picture of your face–
even when you are my cousin,
part of the family I fell for
when still in the womb
I can only whisper your name
to the wind, hoping
that some spirit captures you
and
releases.
April 16, 2014
