Photograph of My Mother

Perhaps she was wearing a blue dress with a French lace collar —the picture is black and white. Perhaps she was in love with that man who never had a chance to be my father —from Tatra Battle only his name came back. They smile, untouched by fate not yet deceived by times when bridges burst into corollas of blood and dust, and I, heartaching for that early light of June, mourn their silent, tender bodies forever trapped into a square of faded paper.