Rebecca Rijsdijk

She rode toward the sunsetin her fathers worn down car.A breeze picked up strands of her hairthrough the open windowwhile a cigarette burned between her lips.He told her stories of honey and milkas he replaced the grass with mud.

And sometimeswhen she does remember,she calls me her little angeland she knows where she isand everything is all rightfor a second or a minuteand then we cry;she for the life that she lostI for the woman I only know about through the stories of her children.