‘This was a practice where the mother, often disguised or hiding, often under a spread, holds her baby tightly for the photographer to insure a sharply focused image.'
so it goes...
After settling in our house we cleared remnants
Of second-hand dirt I know you cringe to find.
(Unlike scraps of afterthoughts:
your Aunt's second ex-husband's
diet list found in your novel
has become what you eat this month)
A contortion develops on your lips during cleaning
Reminding me of overachievers who ask questions
Probing surfaces, sure that you have,
In one way or another, covered each inch touched
By whoever was prior to you being there.
Touched so that it becomes relevant.
In this understanding
Of you wanting the radio off to drive:
That voice that pursues you, propels you
Through all the silence you seek.
In our garden
I always work on my knees
Not to leave imprints in the soil
But to force earth's impression on my skin.
Smell our hyacinth,
I've an abiding wonder for this scent.
Endeavoring to under plant it
To have my skin tang yellow and white...
My knees are mutilated.