Afterward

Her aunt remains (oh, lucky me),
Her cousin and a fresher batch
Of photographs and memories,
But not her pale and lovely face,
Her dancer's form and means
Of moving, glances cast, which
Said, in silence, “Now you know
The things I face,” and, worse,
The words she cooed, the praise,
Unearned, but offered, anyway,
Have ended. She, who came,
At least, in part, to spend some
Time with me, has gone, and
I am doubly sorry. Couldn't
She have flown out with her aunt?



Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 60 times
Written on 2014-10-23 at 13:30

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