“Postcards” by Suzanne Crain Miller

“Our baby is broken” my mother said

Very sympathetically, lovingly

Very heartfelt as she ran

Her fingers over my cast

And I was caught off guard

At the shock and relief that swept in

As I realized that she lives in a country

So foreign to me, this country

where it’s not common knowledge

That I’ve been broken

In every since of that word

For as long as I can remember

And we need that don’t we?

We need to be able to send postcards

To these ones who live

In oblivion’s mysterious countryside

Postcards with nice pictures

Where we say only the best

What we want to be,

How we know they’d want us to be

And smile as we think of

Its receiver reading it over

Tracing our scrawled words

With their fingers as if in doing so

They’re touching our very skin

Believing every word

Because they must, they have to

For their very peace of mind, their survival

And I wouldn’t move my mother

wouldn’t dare suggest she journey

To my impoverished alley way

Wrought with the land mines of heartache

Where I’ve taken refuge

No, no I need her to live there

On that quilted landscape illuminated by the sun

Knowing she struggled long before I knew her

Just to feel its grasses beneath her toes

It brings me such joy to think of her there

Leaving her there is the greatest act of love

I’ll ever give to anyone

And It didn’t cost much, no not really

Only myself…


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