by Margaux Griffith

Her hair (my mother’s) spun
from her olive skin—chestnut.
A photograph stole her timid,
                               thin-lipped
smile, her slickly separated lashes.
I never knew her dark hair
that whirled round wide-framed sunglasses.
She cinches her hair with wide-frames
                              after the sun settles
—we are sailing and I watch
(my mother). She is not a photograph.
The reticent cool of her hazel eyes
(my eyes) echoes the crisp trim of her linen
collar, the way her fingers skirt
from my father as he reaches out to remember
                                            my mother,
a photo of the woman he hardly knew.
I want to know her full brows,
her flickered gaze, her slender
frame etched in waves and sunbeams
pooled in morning light.
                    I want to know her before
she cloaked herself with daughters,
                   before she could only cast
shades, sails trimmed in moonlight.

Margaux Griffith is an MFA poetry candidate at Oklahoma State University. Margaux is a 2012 Honorable Mention for the Academy of American Poets Prize at OSU. She has publications in Cellar Roots and The Writing Disorder as well as a forthcoming publication with The Boiler Journal.