Think of me as time stares down the barrel of a gun
and our tomorrows lose their focus till we are mothers
to grown up grandchildren and the missing generations
don’t dare to visit our ghosts but urge us to wake up
to the tick tocking of open heart surgery slicing through
layers of blame. As if we could walk back into the photograph
and pick up our youth lying discarded under a shady tree
and forget the reasons we ever turned on each other,
the trigger happy memories that blew us apart.
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