Explosion

             for Dee Dee

You wear my tears
as a garland.
They glisten, stars now
in the solar system.
Your heart was too big.
It exploded, tossing you
to the bathroom floor.
Mother dressed us like twins
one summer. Her angels.
Do you remember?
Homeless for years, voices
taunting, you slept in dark 
parks of rape or bartered 
your body for a warm overnight.
You let it roll off,
that waterfall of mean times.
I search tonight for you in the sky,
dear cousin. The wind is plump
with your deep southern drawl.



Pris Campbell
©2009


Photo: My fifth birthday party, Dee to my left.

 


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