What Returns

What returns,

seems random.

The mystery of timing,

and placement.


Laughing sisters.

Winds from the river,

filled with the scents of brine

and coffee beans roasting.

The milky silence,

of our mother,

sitting alone,

with her cigarettes

and unread books.


What returns,

seems crucial.

The significance of timing,

and placement.


My broken arms.

The spring afternoons

filled with the scent of lilacs.

The screaming whistle

of the pressure cooker,

waiting for our mother

to get up,

and turn it off.


What returns……………



Photo: Leigh Pumilia

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