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slightly more to the left
there is a woman pinned to the dirt of the valley
knee-deep in shrubs and bushes and the son she could not
raise from that dirt with her one sepia eye at the nadir
moth-eaten and extinguished as it commands the hills
kneel to it at the rainless crease her hands hungry
to pull the photograph back into the
picnic-blanket-sometimes-sweaty-kerchief-
fold or perhaps rip the thing in two altogether
like her own wilted flower
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for a forgiveness lost
YOU ARE READING
HUMAN PSYCHE
Poetrybecause that which makes us human is that which we think makes us less human
