Saturday Poem: Torn
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Her mother is watching her walk away --
her baby she still calls her,
her boyish daughter with the torn jeans,
shuffling up a hill with her friends.
They are probably talking about boys tonight,
like she heard her on the phone to her bff
about how Jill, her friend, said:
Tommy Schroeder's lips felt dead when they kissed.
Her mom, watching them till they disappeared,
the crease of her daughter's hip --
almost that of a woman.
She never told her she looked into her purse,
saw the pills,
the evidence that she was active.
It was the last she saw of her that day.
Never looking up at her daughter's face,
but watching her knees
push up through the cut hairs of the denim,
as she walked farther away from home,
First Published December 15, 2012 12:00 am