Their Mother’s Voice Was Music
Stories beg for a teller.
Once a mother and her daughters sat cross-legged
They ate sandwiches and pie, guessed names of birds,
and sketched a crown and crest on a brown body. The other,
and their capitals.
Grief cries for a window.
Why keep the photograph of a mother clutching
At home, her daughter’s wedding dress hangs slack
her girl’s chest into air. A water glass flew—
of flesh and blood, that day in San Bernardino.
The sun will rise and moon will follow
Remember bright costumed days.
That evening, they read poetry on a stoop, watched fireflies
Their mother’s voice was music.
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