Child Inside a Heart

Lisa Low


I'm wearing your mother's necklace.

Your father won't see this house

nor the eight other families

your mother says could

live here. Even his memory can't fill

this yard of cattails and ragged

azaleas. The valley my brother disappears

into nightly. Your father's name

hangs from your neck like a gold disc,

your house key shifting

in its eyehole. You've always

thought I look like him. One day I'll 

inherit this chain.