The Fan
On my mother’s dresser
Sits an old brittle photograph
That flirts with the fan that
Was bought to soothe pain.
Shadows hide behind her curtains;
They sneak peeks to see if she
Will ever grow weak.
Because just like
The only photo of my grandmother
Gray highlights her eyes, and
The lines in her face look
Like roads that run deep
Within the soul of a
Person.
At times you can find my
Mother wrapped in the pages of a Bible, or
A homemade quilt; everything around her
Has become a part of her,
Even those shadows, that are starting to
Grow weary, dancing to the hum of
The fan.