Apr/May 2016 Poetry


by T. L. Cummings

Image courtesy of the British Library Photostream


I open the picture album
and let myself into my ghost,
a girl of nine, all knees
and elbows, twirling
a silver baton.

Mom dances the Irish reel.
My new puppy circles
inside the basket, a present
from grandparents settled
on sofa. Seated beside
them, a frown pinches
Mother's forehead.

I listen to pictures
voice their events:
thunder bangs its fist
on our house like
an angry father,
sister's melody
lures light through
our bedroom window.

My hand swings the door
wide to open and closed
faces, family secrets and
songs scattered on the page
like seed. Seed that sprouts
and spreads or withers and
dies on the trail of my life.

Release me from this mountain
where I view time running
for miles. Help me remember
what growing up felt like
by inches. Witness the hand
of this moment glue the
broken doll in my arms.


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