POETRYREPAIRS 11.02: 021
Mama Land by LYN LIFSHIN
Photograph




All the fine arts are species of poetry--Samuel Taylor Coleridge



Reverend Terrebonne Walker by JOHN HORVATH JR

accessgambia

88x31 logo
Photograph Afternoon Again in Apple Trees navigation  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? GoTo Games


PHOTOGRAPH
When I can't find the photographs of my mother, it's like losing her again. There she was, her teeth still white, raven hair the Charles River wind sweeps away from where she was laughing with the man who wrote, "to my angel from her Arthur," on the bottom. You know he is real in poems I wrote about this shot, wondering if there is a similar one in his (if he had them) kids' attic, signed Teddy, the name my mother choose. This photograph of the 2 laughing, on my refrigerator upstate is a piece of my body and not finding it is like seeing lines on my skin grow deeper. My mother must have been mid twenties, her perfect smile, her gleaming. She was about to buy a new camisole this tall man was sure was for him. With out her smiling and free, the shreds of laughing left in the mirror, harden, clench. I want my mother in that photograph before the lines of her face began drawing back, when you could still see the joie de vivre everyone wrote she had in her college year book. When I can't touch this photograph, I lose a piece of myself that held her
POETRYREPAIRS 11.02: 021
please link to POETRYREPAIRS

Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato





Fixed Time Converter

Photograph Afternoon Again in Apple Trees navigation  
POETRY requires a mature audience ENTER only if you are 18+ under 18? GoTo Games

Afternoon Again in Apple Trees
no reading, no book signing. The cat on the edge of the bed, a double for the dead one. Something, as August unravels as it did when my mother called from the next room, takes me in its mouth like the vole the old cat shook to numbness. 15 years since my mother left this house in purple velvet, I dream my mother back and then forget to light the August 30th candle as if she hadn't held me, caught, as tied this summer, even more than the first. And even with the cold front bringing air we could breathe in, what I'm not sure I can protect, things like mist in the emerald branches, threatens to make me want to unmake what I can't
POETRYREPAIRS 11.02: 021
Not a state organ: POETRYREPAIRS accepts no monies from federal, state, or local governments. We relie on readers like you.
Please contribute to maintain POETRYREPAIRS online. DONATE
Desperately Forgetting She's DeadTOP Afternoon Again in Apple TreesVMID navigationNAV guidelinesMSS trademarkTM navigationNAV backback covercovr indexindx