She asked. Do you have
my
photographs. I have your photographs.
You can string them out.
Over your bedroom. Through the dining room and living
room. Across the
hallways that lead in and out of the
kitchen.
Cover the
walls that bear witness. With portraits of
pretty girls with gentle
eyes. Smiling
faces.
But there's
a tension in their posture. In the
hold of their
hands. Their legs.

Keep your portraits.
I have them
all
in the bottom of my drawers.
String them out, your own proof of love.
We will add photos. Of brides and grooms and babies.
They'll keep you company.

After they don't.

the photographs are beautiful.
you can have them.
being that you don't have the people
that are in them.

I was huddled in the corner of the bedroom, in the space created by the bed and the wall and the radiator.
and I promised my children will never know her. wondering how far I will be able to go.
I was eight.

The way out is through.
The way through is out.
But I’m stuck in the labyrinth.

Though you
did what they say you
did you
are not what they say you
are

He started high school a week after his thirteenth birthday, making him nearly two years younger then the grade bec his eighth grade changed their policy that kids come home for dinner from 430 630 then return for night class and mom was adamant that she refuses to have him home these two hours.
That was horrible time.

How much space
I ask
as much as a person needs