At the kicthen table,
Appearance of the future began to fill my bowl.
Fifteen did not know,
Mom's pain was the food we had to eat.
Nine did not know,
Dad's mistakes were buried deeply underneath.
Out back cried the dog.
He was lonely,
And so was I.
As I peered down at my feet,
I thought to myself,
At least one of us still knows how to cry.
* Pairing my photography and poetry