Amy
Amy
No one speaks of you now...
37 years ago they found you in the shed,
not quite dead or five years old
as you struggled for your final breaths,
cut to pieces.
Grown men wept at your funeral;
my mother, a friend of your family,
can't remember if your casket
was open or shut, but can't forget
your sweet smile and disposition,
the way you would hold her hand
and color only if she did it with you.
They took your pictures down
as if you never existed,
as if your mother never lifted
your nearly lifeless body
out of that cardboard box
that your cousin hid you in
before she walked back inside,
her blouse stained from your innocence.
It's as if they left you in there
so they could forget
what hurts too much to remember.