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Mother’s Eyes

Mother’s Eyes

Portrait of Jo, The Beautiful Irish Girl
They say I have my mother’s eyes. 

When I look at pictures’ past, I see a grey melancholy mist descending.

In others, they are vivid green. Turbulent like her beloved Irish sea. 

Sometimes my father’s anger courses through my veins. Red and pulsing, like a young deer’s heart. I cradle it in my hands stained with her tears. 

Staring sharply down the barrel of his gun I exhale as the cold silver transcends the air. It always leaves its mark.

I know it is a plague to feel nothing, so I feel everything. 

When I look in the mirror, I see my mother standing there.

Her ghost dancing in the depths of my reflection.

I hold onto her secrets.