Nineteen years is how
a lie gets disguised as over it.
Where did you go? After all
this cold river melt downstream
I miss you most when one daughter
flicks her wrist just so and her sister borrows
your pretty legs to kick beneath
her short black skirt.
I just got middle-aged—
tiny, intricate webs,
my smile’s sad afterimage.
And suddenly—the way you left—spring
starts up like that Sunday morning in April—
all ache and blossom, church bells,
your inconsolable daughters.
And what then, Mom, what?
(Hamilton Stone Review 2017)