Photography / Poetry · 16 October 2019





She sat like a ghost
outside the circle of the living,
back straight, eyes averted upward.

We clapped for our children
and remembered their beginnings.
Her mouth twisted toward her set jaw.

It is not the dead
who turn thin and transparent,
haunted by longing, unable to grip

the seasons of the living.
She sat like a pale flame guttering.




Photo credit:  Christopher Raley


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