Caption

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.