Your Pictures
Janine Canan
I
You find yourself
each winter--as you
take that bend--
in the great oak
leafless dreaming
in the beam of your headlight.
All your pictures--
the ones you didn't take--
left behind you
at every turn of the road
you chose.
II
Mother,
stepping onto the boat--
you watch,
eyes brimming,
as she turns and waves.
III
Two years old--
plumper
than you remembered--
next to your brother
of thick yellow cream.
You'd already learned
the habit of sadness.
IV
You take hurt hard.
Two stones
on the dining table--
smooth, earth-journeyed, scarred.
Inedible
as thin green milk,
flat as two ungrown breasts,
cold, insensate as angry mother--
unforgiven, unmourned.
V
Julie,
austere in light-planes
that barely separate her
from you--
daughter still
though fought
three thousand miles away.
VI
Sitting by the violins
in your burgundy dress,
your hair done up in braids,
your eyes gaze up to the balcony.
His eyes are looking down.
Your eyes gaze up to the balcony--
his eyes look down.
VII
Denise,
leaning by the window,
her breasts two light-pears,
fingers your silver--
belly of moon.
VIII
I step in the light
and snap you--
your head thrown back
in a sudsy bath,
laughter rinsing you
down to the bone.
IX
You,
holding a glass of sweet vermouth,
kneel before the fire,
carrots, celery, purple cabbage
in your lap,
cheeks still flushed from the bath,
hair wet, knees bare,
and all around you
the red red robe.
X
The Hudson is frozen.
Train cars sleep by the tracks.
I stand by the window,
behind me the white
smoothly made bed,
my knees against the heater,
a cold quartz stone in my hand.
XI
Old Oak,
eye now closed for winter
that silently braids
your dream--
when the mists fall
you are there,
when the rains fall
you are there,
when the snows fall
you are there,
whenever someone steps near.
