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.