Living Midair poems by Karen June Olson | April 2019 |
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. ~ Nevertheless. The sun will rise and moon will follow ticks. ~ Remember bright costumed days. That evening, they read poetry on a stoop, watched fireflies Their mother’s voice was music. |
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