Nancy L. Meek


She would love to forget
her children unborn…
gifts from the war
leaving her torn…
recalling… forgetting,
weeping… regretting,
missing their father
who died “over there”,
kissing his photo…
his thousand-yard stare,
his lips flat and cold
beneath the old glass,
cutting to the heart
of his widowed lass,
examining the shards…
gifts from the war,
the remembering too hard
while closing the door
but just ajar… yes, ajar
to permit some light in
in case she might need some
remembering when…