Monday 6 July 2020

photograph, your personal effects

by Frances Jackson

my grandmother
in her 40s,
in the 80s,
sitting on a new green polyester couch
in the woods
in Alabama.

my grandfather
in the other room,
or at the bar,
playing cards.
before the old computer
came to the basement
where he liked to sit in the morning
and drink whole milk.

my young mother,
out of frame in the living room,
her young brother
smiling with no teeth.
she cried in the hospital,
some fifteen years before,
because he was born
and people below her cried, too,
for baby boys grown up and gone wrong.

but we all still suffer and
we all still soothe,
and we are all alone
in our own frames
above the leather recliner,
and everyone says how
beautiful we are but
we can’t bear to look.

* * * * *

Frances Jackson is a queer, female poet based out of Atlanta, GA. She is currently working on her doctorate degree.

1 comment:

  1. I'm amazed at how smoothly you took us from "ordinary" into the old photos, and then segued us into the awful, visceral sadness.