Camera Obscura   {194_}
                                
Memory pastes cut-outs at random.   A woman
who was an angel to me is fleshed out from her
sweat-damp hair to the bunions swelling redly
by each big toe.  Even the board she irons at,
and the basket of some society woman’s linens
she has to finish by 4:00 or else, stand in relief.
Her unframed spectacles and sagging stockings –
the brown deals women called War Stockings --
could have been painted by Rockwell.  I cannot see
her eyes.  I cannot see the dress she has aproned,
though I know it to be fashioned from sacks.
I see the little square kitchen.  I see the leaning
white cupboard with the warped bottom door.
I see the sink that she skirted with faded checked
cloth. A jar of brown and white soap slivers
melts on the sill behind.  A  bead of water hangs
like rusted snot from a spigot needs a washer.
What I cannot see is the nonworking man idling
in a  kitchen chair in front of a window  looking out
on the street.   I see the homemade curtain.  I see
the string from which it hangs.  I see the patched
linoleum on a floor so warped, it dizzies to see.
I do not see him.  I do not see the son who like
my brother – whom I see well, but never here,
never with her – specialized in Trouble and hid
with utter genius.  Sometimes I see a cameo of him.  
It is as if his freckled face, side-tilted nose,
and corn-colored cowlick have been cut out
and pasted real quick to construction paper.
Halo is black.  No body. Not even a smirk.  
His mouth is unaccountably missing.  I do not
see him at the funeral.  I see her in her black
coat, walking to the river.  I see her walking in.
I see her from the back.  I was not there for her, see.
See  what I did not.  Why can’t memory cut that?

                    (c)  Phyllis Jean Green, 2007
                                 All  rights  reserved