THE PHOTOGRAPH

I cradle you

between my fingertips, careful

not to bleed sweat

onto your smile,

cluttered with more craters than the moon, and

wider than the rings

Saturn proposed to the sky with.

 

You do not

blink back at me,

your steely eyes crafted

like the ocean, they

refuse to ripple

when I drop pennies,

in exchange for wishes.

 

Your hair parted

like Moses’ water,

rip curls singing

of pebbled beaches, of

comb teeth long lost,

in the matted debris

of golden locks.

 

Crimson uniform bundled

over youthful bones,

enveloped across rosy skin,

you wear it

like a laurel,

crowning your feathered hair.

 

With you still cradled

between my fingertips,

I tuck you away,

cosied up to the spine

of the family photo album, and

I let the dust settle.

 

JEMMA SHAW

 

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