The Growth Chart

The view from
every angle
was of my mama’s
measurement chart
etched like an inscription
on a tombstone
into the door jamb
of the living
room, not to record
my growth
through the years,
but to report
the date of each
time someone
passed through
to the other side.

She called our living
room
the dying
room. But with each
entry of elimination,
my mother said
we all grew
a little.

Her Actions Were a Grave Mistake

Here is the prompt for Day Thirteen (copied from Writer's Digest):

For today’s prompt, write a view poem. Wherever you’re at, you have a view: maybe of a river or sunset. Maybe of a cubicle or a copy machine. Even the blind have a view of darkness, nothingness, or some other -ness. And that’s just being literal, because everyone has views on sports, politics, poetry, etc

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