( San Francisco, California )
Always, in my mind, I see this in black and white:
A film noir, or a page from an old Vogue.
So, light is there, but only vaguely, consisting of that which
gathers toward morning, a slim moon.
The kitchen, shrouded in its cleanliness, contains them
and the small table at which they sit:
My mother, clothed in her white wrapper, leans
toward my father, opposite her.
He is newly uniformed. His recursive smile, the deep
angles of his face, gather in a jack-light.
Light, also, contains their hands:
White nesting birds, alert and synchronous.
Likewise, at the exit door, the wings of their bodies
This is the last time I will see them in this way,
mated for life.
Next - Lynn Strongin
Current Issue - Winter 2006