Bio Note: have published two chapbooks, one with Main Street Rag called Fireweed and the second with Finishing Line Press called Ghost-Mother. My poems have appeared or will appear in The Blue Mountain Review, Poetica, Writer's Foundry Review, and Minyan Magazine. I am a proud member of Carlow University's Madwomen in the Attic Writing Workshops.
My dear N, The fig tree has born hot-green leaves, spread open like a mother’s waiting embrace. White petals from pear trees leap, joyous as snow. Remember the Blue Ridge Parkway? Switchback roads, mountains thick with trees? Rhododendrons blooming hot pink? Here, in Pittsburgh, in the house you never saw, our azaleas bloom the same shade. I am driving on a bridge that never ends. My darling son, I cannot find you in this corporeal world no matter how fast I go. Each day I scan the sky, search for the wisp of cloud that is your smile.
Photo of My Parents
Her dress swirls chiffon, glitters in the camera’s flash. Her coral lips, her gilded hair. He wears a patterned tie, a pale shirt. His hair dark and full, face plump with joy. She is 20. He, 26. 1950 Richmond. Look. They are tender, eyes warm on each other’s face. Behind them, slightly to the left, a blur of a band, hint of drums, the piano’s keyboard, a glint of horns. Their feet move in unison, arms embrace. Listen. You can hear the music, something fast, its tempo full of life and hope. They are consumed with each other, bodies so close, their lips almost touch.
©2022 Valerie Bacharach
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