shells.
I have a picture of you in
a heart-shaped frame upon my
old radio. There is a picture of
you in the living room by a white
horse.
I have never met you but I
imagine everything about you
when mom tells me stories
of you, or when I see a
picture of you.
Your wagon stands in Why,
Arizona, at a family-owned
store; I look at it and remember
you, wishing I could only get
it back.
I pass the place where you were
found, half dead and ask mom
"Why isn't there a cross?" She
tells me and I feel sorrow - I
will get you one.
Images of you come and go
as I lie on my bed and
stare deeply at your picture
as though looking for some
sign.
When I head back home and
look at your land, very little
is left of you, but in my mind
and heart there is a field with
images of you.