MOTHER PLAYING AS A YOUNG GIRL
Newspapers line the hallways,
pour into the bedrooms, surround
the toilet. They suffocate the ceiling,
heavy stacks, with sun-stained
age-spot eyes, circular and yellowed.
Napkins and old receipts line his pockets,
pouch out as he sits, a tower of legs,
arms and never-ending torso jabbing out
from the seemingly child-sized couch.
The sound of clinking ice is thunder
any summer night, when the cool
winds from the north are about to
unwillingly buckle from the force
of the heat.
In her thin fingers, small trinkets,
dirtied from outside,
leave pebbles of brownness as they
become ants, cities, a family.
In brown, earth-loving hands
they break, slammed down smaller
than anything, than dust, than herself.
fiction poetry "fact" photography