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One Last Photograph

Bruce Hodder

If we’d only taken one last photograph,
perhaps of my hand clasping hers,
mine young, unblemished still,
hers too young to be veined with age,
not liver spotted, not yet arthritic
at the knuckles as my own are now,
but displaying, in their hanging skin,
the loss of weight her final illness caused;
If we’d had that picture taken,
I would hang it in my living room,
there, perhaps, where the certificate
for the degree she never saw me get
hangs now. Then I could point at it, not talk,
whenever kind friends say I’m strong.

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