Here, to make it better (or worse), is a poem I wrote two Sundays ago.
My Mother Wore Black
when she married my father.
Black, with red roses—some
"hippie shit" as my brother
Tom would say.
I look at this picture of them,
with their wide smiles
and 70s haircuts,
and I think that
they were very much in love.
Everyone says I look like my mother,
but I see this and I'm starting
to think, no,
I look like my father.
But then I see the crinkles
around his eyes, from that
big smile that hits his cheeks,
and he looks just like Jay.
So maybe I sort of look like
both of them,
and maybe
I'm also just me.
All I really know
is that my mother wore black
when she married my father
and it is some sort of "hippie
shit" that I would most
definitely do.
And since my mother wore black
I feel O.K., knowing that
maybe I look a little
like both of them,
and that maybe I do
know my mother
as well as I hope I do.
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