Picture

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

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