In The Photograph
LYN LIFSHIN
her hair is
not so blonde,
the paint isn't
pealing around the
window. She is
calm. The room's
blue shutters
are less blue
than the veins
below her wrists
and ankles or
small irises
drifting behind her hair.
The woman does
not look back, stares
over the photo
grapher's shoulder.
He is her husband,
imagines this shot
will make him
known, at least
bring him a
spread, a spot
in some gallery
where a collector
will pounce
on it, high on
such a find. The
dark saliva at
the corners of his
mouth are what
his wife remembers
not how he threw a
black stone at her
cat when she
lies twisting under
gauze where some
of the curves
he focused on
are whittled away,
the rest blasted with
x ray, knows
until the bandages
are removed
he won't dare
hit her. When she
returns to the
blue house she
had pine cones
and wish bones
in, he is no
longer pretending
to hang on her
words but is
hanging in the
hallway. All the
photographs are
labeled and mounted.
She says she wouldn't
have wanted anything
any other way
