His Children Watch from Picture Frames
The first night I met him,
Each childless weekend
I drive from school
to where the hills are no longer
silk and spry but in repose
along a cursive horizon.
I think of him waiting
to want me as the sun glares
in the rearview.
I have not met his children,
and I wonder if they know about me,
six years younger than the oldest,
whose picture beams from his tall
dresser, her hair as straight and split
as deck wood.
I look at Jenny sometimes
from bed and thinks of my own
posed smile, braced grin
like a mouth full of staples. How once,
kneeling between him, he caught on me,
a thin wail as I bent the metal to release.
How I kissed him everywhere
as apology, and he turned me toward
the wall where Jenny looked down
like a technicolor ghost, a woman
who keeps pursing her lips
to whisper, Hold tight.
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