the picture of me
in a brown, floral smock
was the last picture taken
of my mother's daughter.

on the white, chipping stairs
of a stranger's house,
her fingers cast out far
towards my shoulder.

my eyes glazed and plod
down the street,
behind the camera,
where the curve met sun.

somewhere nearby, a beach
settled down space for my body.
the same grainy bed
where so many fish are rotting.

i am squinting; we made a line
of pinched faces, round and wrong.
maybe less the glaring sun
and more an explosion of myself.

03/13/2006

Author's Note: this version is revised from the original, however, it is new because i recently (accidentally) deleted the first revised version. i can't really learn to like this one as much because of what a stupid move that was to delete the other. in time, i suppose i'll forgive myself. it wasn't that great to begin with.

Posted on 03/14/2007
Copyright © 2025 Meghan Helmich