She Holds Her Photographs - Audio

This poem is for my mother. And for yours. And for every woman who has ever been called only in relation to someone else.WomenShe holds her photographsthe way water slips through fingertipsknowing it’ll leaveher embraceonce againin it, she wore red, sometimes a soft bluecolors that never seemed to fit her skin againher sister laughs, beside the whole familythe way families dobefore life began disrupting themI watch her eyestravel to that placethe small laugh, deep sighthe way her breath followsto the edge of a timewhere I was not born yetshe was thinner thenskinny wearing bones differentlyunaware of what they were yet to carryshe says she was more beautifuland then she turns to meand asks“Am I still pretty?”she waits for a answerI say “yes”the way sons dowhen the truth is too large to handleThey taught girls earlyhow to devote themselvesmake themselvesinto a giftpink ribbon, and allwrap their voices in soft edgesuntil they fit in a drawerno one would ever openhanded a measuring tapebefore she could speaktold her to hold it against herselfevery morningfor the rest of her lifebe good enough, be quiet enoughfit the space, they decided a woman should occupyshrink, become smaller firstspeak second, or not at allHer body borrowedfor childrenher future loanedto a societythat never learnedto appreciate herher name is still herstechnicallybut the light wraps differently around itwhen you’re a wife, mother, daughter in-lawcalled only in relationto someone elseand yetshe stands therethe woman that stood in the photographI see her sometimesin the way she laughswhen she forgetsthe world is watchingin the way she singseven though her voice catchesas if even her tonguehas been caughtin this borrowed futurein the way the colors reach for heruntil she puts them back on a rackthen sometimeson the happy daysshe’ll take them home anywayThey couldn’t stealwhat she never showed themshe kept it locked awayin a placewithout her husbandin a placeno silencecould ever legislateshe grew up to realizeshe’d always fall short of proving herselfshe holds her photographsshe is mourning, yesbut she recognizes someonewho is stillforeveralive Get full access to The House Still Exists at edenexempt.substack.com/subscribe