IN THE HEYDAYS OF HIS EYES
(taut jeans dancing)

An Anthology of Poetry about Being Young and Growing Up
 
 
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ALONE TOGETHER

Jo-Ann Bowman

I have a photograph of my mother. She is standing all alone With her shoes in her hand And the surf at her feet. White grains of sand between her toes, Painted blue, matching the clear Mexican sky. The sea breeze Is pulling at her dress and hair. Her skin is golden brown Stained from hours in the sun, The sun that glistens off the water. She is smiling, Eyes half squinting from the glare, Sunglasses atop her head. I look at a photograph of my mother As, all alone, we spent the day together.

 
 
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