An observer would have
thought her unsuited
for that frame.

I wondered why my
parents kept the photo on
the piano. She’d died over

ten years ago. Died on her
own, by her own stupidity.
A visitor would have

thought her adorable,
precocious, serene.
Unable to see the contagious

recklessness. Unable to see
the damage she inflicted.
How my family came undone.

I slip her photo into
the desk drawer. Underneath
a stack of report cards.

[This poem is from Microtones by Robert Vaughan
Červená Barva Press, 2013]

3 thoughts on ““Legacy”

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