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I know more than her name and when she died.
(But, if only name, date, that's more than most.)
She kisses her ecstatic child, whose eyes are wild,
joyful and lit. The mother's lips twist, wrinkle at
a slight angle as they rest against her offspring. Profile
pronounced, delicate, the long line of her cheek gleaming
high, just washed--moments before bed. Everyone is tired,
sure, but her eyes look off to the side and down,
whorling dust and light collide and explode,
expand, contract, explode again. In the background
of the photo are trees I've named for baseball players
or ancestors, and in a dinner chair, sits a large man
in a green shirt. His expression is half-smile, lips pursed,
as if miming a kiss, or sucking his teeth. His eyes smile
more than his mouth. Head cocked, a child on each knee.
The man in the green shirt is imagining you.
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