Farah Khan Poetry

You say it like,
like my mother,
it's harsh and makes
me frown, we need
to talk, it's really
not your words, it's
something hurting behind
them. I remember the
words I try to live by-
Don't regret anything,
Own it.

Still, I didn't like
how you told me that
these pictures don't
make you happy, make
you feel like we need
a little discussion,
and not over the phone
either, that's really
bad news, you know.

There's a lump, maybe
it's pizza, maybe it's
fear, of what is on
those glossed out Kodak
shots, lord knows even
I don't remember, growing
and pulling inside my
iron-walled stomach.
Ironic? Slightly. Then

again, it had been years
since anyone made me
feel anything in my
abdomen. Vacuums made
it all but numb. The
tone of your voice
made the butterflies
stop and go quiet,
flopping over to one
side, barely twitching,
hoping that maybe, just
maybe, they could resume.

Poet: Angela Thomas