About a Photograph
Every time we took a picture, someone had to hold me.
This time it was mother.
She was thin, then,
and her arms were cold.
I didn’t want to be held.
I could feel the bones.
Cant I run and play?
But I couldn’t talk then.
We sat under a tree.
Dad always had the camera
an old camera
I must have been a toddeler:
blonde hair
big eyes.
She would sing:
“I’m gonna make your brown eyes blue . . .”
and I was terrified
Don’t change the color of my eyes!
She would hold me,
not the way she did in that picture,
sitting beneath that tree,
and I stood,
eyes askew, stance askance.
arms wrapped around from behind.
I can see rainclouds under her eyes
also brown, also round and wide,
deep pits and bones around the sockets.
I’ve never seen that expression on my face
though I know what it feels like to make it,
when I sit beneath my own trees
and wish I could walk away, run and play
but I can’t cause I’m sad,
and I’ve got my own arms around me
I’ve got long arms just like my mother,
even in the picture.
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