Sunday, April 27, 2014


by Christine Fojas

Poolside. A woman and a child sitting
with wet t-shirts and crinkle-eyed smiles.
Twelve years later, the sun's the same
but little else.

When did love prove itself a lie?
A mother never quite lets go
of a daughter's hand. But that's not just
love; that's pride and face; that's
something you hold because you feel
you own it, a little. Love's another marker,
another mark.

Children meet time and families
grow out, too-tight clothes with holes
and stains, shoes that pinch toes. You
are you, and who knows how much of you
is moss that grew on stone, how much
are edges smoothed by the pounding sea,
and how much really is mother's fault
which is big enough

to crack the world apart.
So when did love prove itself a lie?
That it could mend a break, that it
could span the sea? That it could let me

help you now?

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