What My Mother Does Not Tell Us
My father’s secrets. His face on the walls
of a fallen house. His ears tracing the teary
voice of my mother. His life opened like a jar.
His shadow walking an empty room, searching
for where everything that remains speaks of love.
My father’s hands on a table full of old things.
His unfinished manuscripts wrapped by cobwebs.
The contents of his heart the day he left home,
how he was shot like a dog, and how he was buried
without songs nor flowers, the image of his body
hanging in my mother’s head.
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