parade

Isabel Acevedo

The wedding photo is waiting in an old box.
My mother’s face as a young bride was beacon white.
As a child, I clung to her curls in the dark.
I could not separate her hair from the sky. 

My mother’s faith is pure as a young bride.
Her face looks like her mother’s. She looks like me.
I cannot separate our hair from the sky. 
The dead are whispering in my sleep. 

Her face looks to her mother’s and finds me.
A parade of pink lips and white dresses. 
The dead are whispering, come and see 
a family history of being left, loveless. 

A parade of pink lips and white dresses. 
The wedding photo is waiting in an old box.
A family history of being left, loveless. 
I am a child, clinging to her in the dark.