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.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: