2002

[s3]

2nd edit: 

Dry soil, dust lifting, and underneath it a floating wound
a mystery, or a forgotten belonging: 
how you could run so fast but never get very far
is a relic of the truth, a tragedy
far removed from the prime of your life
yet still fully formed in its image. 

With growing unease
I stare at the edges of your photograph
and think of what you were, 
what might have survived you: heat, water, bone, 
a favorite lipstick. Your fear of the light. 

The hunter-gatherer comes to the end of his route
standing before the gorge
twin oceans of prairie grass and diamond sky 
in place of the yellow-and-grey canyons of his youth. 
Looking for the warp over the scar
the yolk on your fingers, a twin without twin, 
peer without peer: what did you realize
when you saw land? 

I imagine you holding me 
nursing by the small window, 
condensation tracking down the water glass
and breast milk drying on your skin, 
the ants in my ear humming a strange lullaby. 
An odd tableau
for someone more used to surviving than giving - 
in stillness, stars could burn you, but metal couldn't cut you
and time never altered you. 

Having been made in your image
I find myself unable to turn the page. 
Springtime has arrived in Texas
and with it, the beginning of a new life; a new happiness
over the same sadness. White blossoms
cupping your smile, 
the baby. Sunlight streaming in softly over your head
and the asphalt under your feet warming, a warning. 

Entropy studies me the way I study
  you. 

**

1st edit (thank you for the feedback!) : 

How you could run so fast but never get very far
is a mystery, a tragedy
far removed from the prime of your life
yet still fully formed in its image. 
With growing unease
I stare at the fading edges of your photograph
and think of what you were, 
what might have survived you: heat, water, bone, 
a favorite lipstick. Your fear of the light. 

Standing before the gorge, the hunter-gatherer
come to the end of his route, he finds
the yellow canyons of his youth long exchanged
for an ocean of flat prairie grass. 
Looking for the warp over the scar, 
the yolk on your fingers, a twin without twin: 
what did you realize
when you saw in yourself an open wound? 

I imagine you
nursing by the small window, 
condensation tracking down the water glass
and breast milk drying on your skin, 
the ants in my ear humming a strange lullaby. 
I used to listen to you sleep, sometimes, through the door - 
you were almost always quiet. Rise and fall. 
In stillness, I think stars could burn you
but metal couldn't cut you. Fabric couldn't touch you. 

I slide the picture back into its cover
but am unable to flip the page. 
Springtime has arrived in Texas: white blossoms cupping your smile,
the baby. Sunlight streaming in softly
over your head, and the asphalt under your feet
warming, a warning. 
Entropy studies me the way I study
  you. 

Original version: 

Dry soil, dust lifting, and underneath it
a floating wound or flaxen youngness...
how you could run so fast but never get very far
is a mystery of its own. 
A tragedy far removed from your prime
yet still fully formed in its image. 
With growing unease
I stare at the fading edges of your photograph
and I think of what you were, 
what survived you: heat, water, bone, 
your fear of the light, a favorite lipstick, maybe.
Standing at the gorge, the hunter-gatherer
come to the end of his route, 
he finds the yellow canyons of his youth exchanged
for flat prairie. Looking for the warp over the scar, 
the yolk on your fingers, a twin without twin: 
what did you realize
when you did? Nursing by the small window, 
condensation tracking down the water glass
and breast milk drying on your skin, 
the ants in my ear humming a strange lullaby; 
in stillness, stars could burn you 
but metal couldn't cut you. Springtime
in Texas: white blossoms cupping your smile, 
the baby. Sun
over your head, and the asphalt under your feet
warming, a warning.
Entropy studies me the way I study
  you.