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Small Branches Poetry

Family Photographs, Grand Canyon, 1968
 
At the rim he recognizes escape,
leaving behind cornfields, strands
of silk drying to brown.  The ears
plump, ripening under hazy skies.
For him, an ocean, unfamiliar stars,
a glint of bridges and barbed wire,
the jungle's consuming green.
He stares out beyond the horizon.
 
One hand clenches
the dividing bar, the other
is full of son, asleep on her shoulder.
She sees the plummet of stone
into the ravines, a small crumbling
at the canyon's rim,
knows the magnitude of absence.
 

By Amy Unsworth
June 2002