4447. A CRUMPLED PORTRAIT OF MY MOTHER

A CRUMPLED PHOTOGRAPH

OF MY MOTHER
I have the memory of something here clenched in my hand -
she was small, and a little dumb, but smart in ways too.
Nothing I'd know the difference of, just annoying, mostly.
I wished none of it had ever come to that, as it did. I know
she's buried right where they put her, but I've never
myself gone. Can't bear the mess of it all - father,
mother, grandmother, the whole fevered bunch.
-
And, so, what am I now, sour grapes? No, not like
that at all - just a confused, leftover one : wondering
how I ever got put there, what I was doing in the middle
of that, how I ever got out, if I did, and why I was never,
actually, like any of them at all; like any of them at all.