Writing

Septermber

Poem • March 28, 2006


she used to laugh every time-
 (“Septermber” she whispered to herself)
on every masterpiece I held,
8.5 x 11, crayon on paper
it was always misspelled,

I had forgotten that.

my mother held on to it all
 (filed neatly in her wooden hope chest)
all but what really mattered,
clenching so tight to these old drawings
the edges faded and tattered,

I’ll never forget that.

“I locked myself in here, Sugar”
 (I was the only one she ever called Sugar)
alone in what was once her bedroom,
smearing twenty-year-old ink
crying into dried out paper heirlooms,

I won’t forget you.


Notes

Originally published in Pressed Between the Pages #1.


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