I am not in the photograph. Pretend I am.
My sisters, three, their brown hair in
barrettes, piled atop their heads. Their
eyes scallop-shell wide, their mouths
wide and grinning, trying to imitate the
camera flash. Make believe that’s me with
them. A shock of baby gold hair. Blue
eyes. The smile of all that’s ignorant of
the true world. My sisters in their school
tunics, green and red. See me there as
the only boy, the little one in baby clothes
before he knows a thing. My father’s shadow
reaches to their dainty shoes. I’m that
shadow. He’s killed on the job six months
later and I’m born into that death. He pats
my head and is gone. You weep and
I’m in tears. Rip up that shadow, toss
away the pieces, sprinkle the spaces
with a collage of my first steps, my first
words, my face, clean and pretty. Three
young girls pose for the last year of
his life. I can feel you out of camera
range willing your pregnancy to end so I
can join them. Your cramps twist up my stomach.
Your morning sickness catches in my throat.
----------
[first read in ZYX number fifty-six]
No comments:
Post a Comment