~some Old Scrapbook~
She could have cried
into the ravine of its spine,
distorted light
so sepia seemed greyer,
but that would have meant
admitting recognition.
Her dusty yard knees
creeping below the shift
of her fidget,
and that book;
the one she found smoldering
in the ruins of her mothers leaving,
tucked away behind clothes
she didn’t want.
“Celluloid consequences,”
that’s what father had said
as he roused another bottle into life,
and she dragged herself back
from pictures best forgotten.
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