Aunt Wilma’s and Aunt Ruth’s Mother not Even Worth a Yawn
Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem
Forgotten ones are lost in and stare out
From sepia. They do not matter, not
At all. The photo albums almost shout
The nothingness of these, their silent nought.
Their children and their children leave them trapped
In volumes almost never opened. There
These unremembered ones continue rapt
In darkness till a child lets in the glare
Of now, its ruthless light. The child asks, “Who
Are they?” and no one knows, or if they know
They say, “That’s Woodrow’s father, married to
That woman, Wilma’s mother, long ago.”
And that is all the kiddie gets because
That’s it. The page is turned without a pause.
~ Phillip Whidden