Tuesday, April 26, 2016



This picture haunts me.
It's as if
I sealed my fate

in a moment of silliness
prompted by the photographer.
The blind date

with the man who would be your father
was that same night.
I was blind indeed. And he didn't wait

a single minute for my good sense to return.
Almost before I realized it,
I was hitched and whisked away

to that wretched farm.
His conquest
was my doomsday.

I won't try to stop you, Iva.
Neither will I come rescue you.
It is your life to waste.

©Mary Lee Hahn, 2016


  1. Those last two stanzas. His conquest was my doomsday. A sock in the gut line if I ever read one.
    And the mother sounds so, so harsh. And so unloving.


    He says we need
    a photograph of us
    headed west
    to stake our claim and so

    I plop the stetson
    on top of my pompadour
    slide the rifle across my knee
    rest my hand on my hip
    put a little swagger
    into my smile

    the slight gap between us?

    I wonder
    whether it will
    as we forge
    this trail.

    (C) Carol Wilcox, 2016

    1. Every story needs a good villain, eh? Mother's been fun to write!

      And yours -- those gaps between us that grow or shrink along the journey...big truth...