She gave me birth, he fathered me;
he turned down the Croix de Guerre because his
donkey got one too;
she descends from Joan of Arc’s bad brother;
I held her still bloody from her mother;
he died a few weeks back, and at his
funeral I saw him and her, and
those two bickering;
he’s bigger than me now, but his first school shirt
still sits in my drawer;
she is still as beautiful as when I
caught her then, unaware of a lens.
Us, our children, our parents and theirs,
sisters, brother, nephews, nieces: all adorn our
dark hall, framed against time but still
silently fading.
Comments
This is beautiful . . . this one makes me cry!
Reblogged this on Fridayam's Blog.