Postcards for Dorothy Pinkney

by Lois Wilson

I imagine him to be a veteran,
An old, surviving man, but in fact
His words are younger than I’ll ever be again.
Those thirty-seven postcards carry
Only thirty-seven times a dozen words.
And they’re enough to gather up my mother’s
Mother’s mother’s worth. Her whole collection
Left to us is just behind that frame, those
Thirty-seven swirling, fading nicknames.
Dearest Pink of Perfection. Nothing more
Or less was necessary then. Now,
Only the pictures are seen. The backs
Are what we memorised before we hid – protected –
Every single one of them behind a screen.