Thursday, April 11
THE PICTURE TIN Father learned exile by television And this was wartime. Mother washed. I sat quietly with a tin Full of pictures. Night drew. My hands grew warm touching their faces In youth. There was a roll of bills In a pocket in the closet But why had she shown it to me? Mother's hands made rough sounds on her uniform. It was green Like the tips of my eyes, now bedtime. The corners I touched felt like tusks. "We say elephant tears," he once said. In my picture tin The war raged on: black and white A fugitive zebra on the street With my heart pulsing red in its mouth. (Sahar Muradi)