The lines in her face bespoke of hard times,
the smell of her perfume,
of better times,
the cadence of her voice,
the very best of times.
Her profile picture was that of her beautiful aunt overseas,
her profile, that of her imagination,
& everything she did, someone else,
somewhere, had done,
so that when someone came knocking,
they knew not who she was.
Every holiday, her son had sent her a postcard & sometimes a text—
but he’d died long ago, & another man had picked up where he’d left off;
where, she could not tell.
Like an unopened letter in a post office box,
she waited for someone to read her,
& when someone did,
it gave a glimpse into a little girl’s elaborate world
Portrait of Jocelyn
His wife had been a mystery,
whereas he was an open book.
When she was solved,
along with her murder,
he closed himself up.