My mother defied the doctors
refusing sleep
instead cherishing the pain
that brought me.
On the day I was born
my father took photos
beautiful silver prints
Then left to
celebrate alone.
That day the lines were drawn.
I was hers.
The bottle was his.
(written in response to a poetry prompt on G+)
This is incisive and clear--two things I love in a poem. You tell a larger story in few words. Well done.
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