Eva Collins : Photographs and Writing


The Daughter

I saw a Polish movie last night.

The theatre was crowded
with softly spoken, pirouetting people.

Smiling men bowed their heads,
raising women’s hands to their lips.

Perfumed women kissed each other,
dabbing lipstick
from the corners of their mouths.

I drifted on the soothing whispers,
words rolling smoothly
like polished pearls
in my ears.

Next to me,
a silver haired man chatted
with an everlasting blonde
whose daughter, my age
stood politely
not understanding a word.

Her eyes were blank
but her mother’s sparkled,
as she exchanged
the niceties and news
in the language so dear to me.

I bathed in their words,
and for a moment,
it was I
who was her daughter,
while the real one
stood woodenly by.


Eva Collins