Madres

Nothing surprises more than

Faces gently swollen

By age, or tears, or both

Displaying the ironic parabola

Of a secret happiness, a shared

Joke amongst portraits of the

Dead, caught in the corners

Of twin, age spotted chins,

Partaking in the miraculous

Ritual of the pained,

The laugh that timidly

Creeps from frightened

Throats, driving the wreckage

Back from the scene of the crime,

The unquenchable chortle

That reminds your body

Of its existence, more substantial

Than any adrenaline heartbeat,

The curving line thrown

Onto shore, securing the restless

Minds of disaster, the lifeline

Of audacious, sore smiles.