Still Life

By | 15 September 2022

My daughter’s hair clips
pastel the carpet. Plastic flowers
I try not to step on.
Even chaos is relative—a mess made
by my longing for order.

As a child, we lived in a trailer,
then a shelter, then a van.
My first memory: my sister eating lunch
from a cupholder. Our lives
so invisible, they felt forbidden.

This morning, in my apartment, it hurts
to be human. Einstein says gravity
can push things apart, but on Earth
it only holds us together. Distance
marked by our having once
been whole. Is this still life,
with no one here to see it?

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