There Is A Photo
There is a photo,
nestled haphazardy in an old suitcase
between stacks of Kodaks,
and Polaroids, and forgotten negatives,
and nice little studio prints.
There is this photo,
still here after each long year,
day after day after day after day
waiting to be noticed.
This photo is innocuous.
It does not dare tell what it
Could tell if only I would tell
But I don't tell so everything is ok
For now maybe. I think so anyway.
I look at this photo.
As you moved in the grass, as you
Twirled, and reveled, and danced and played.
Lived as though you had no
Growing shadows to display,
No carrion scars yet to
Give you away.
I printed this photo at the drug store.
It was my last goodbye to you.
I held it and I admired it and I
Smiled about it, much like I always
Did with you so I could love you.
He pulled things asunder however,
So that he could do to me what
he would do that would please him, and I know
I know, I feel it, he did it to you too.
The curtains fell for one nightmare,
And rose for another.
I could not stay. Perdoname.
For eleven years, this photo is all that I
Have had left of you and your tender little heart.
Yes, I accepted it, but too, I
Buried it under stacks of Kodaks,
Polaroids, negatives, and nice little studio prints
Much like I did with all the hurt and
Poignancy of that last day.
You musn't be angry darling.
Please don't.
You are one of the brightest little stars
To light up my sky.
I wait for the day when this photo
Is just another part of my art that I can display
With the rest, and it's encompassing power over me
Like a muffled scream,
I am hoping I can, maybe we can
Finally let it go.