I still have a few things my mother
left me. One is a picture of
a single-story house and a
laundry line with white sheets flapping
beside an orange orchard plagued
by possums and an overabundance
of sunshine. Another is a
cross, awash, along the bottom
of a drawer full of tokens from
The Orient and a little
jagged rock I stole from a memorial
library in Big Sur. And yet
another is a birthday card
kept oriole in a cage, and
it reads: you, my son, are…
keith anthony francese
10-14-2014
* This poem first appeared in Gravel, The University of Arkansas. 2014.
