Frances,
es for girls, is for boys.
She isn’t common and I have
the bad habit
of dropping her for simplicity.

F, for Frank
over the phone spelling my email.
Not because I like Frank better or
because I think he’s more interesting.
Just because he’s easy.
People know him. They get it
right the first time.

September is still summer
in Charleston. And I stand
alone among sharp inhalations
acknowledging
displays of tools and shackles
and ledgers with family names.
A private moment
in a public place too real for photos.
I won’t forget
where Francis came from.

I say her name more often
lately.
Write her down
with equal weight.
She speaks
and if I listen she tells
invisible bedtime stories
that remind me of
where Frances came from.

© SF Jones, 2014

My take on the Daily Post’s weekly writing challenge, “Digging for Roots”.  

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