I know more than her name and when she died.
Her ecstatic child's eyes are wild and joyful lit.
Full lips twist, wrinkle at a slight angle,
rest against her toddler's head.
Profile delicate, pronounced, the long line
of her jaw gleams high, just washed–ready for bed.
We're all tired, sure, but her eyes–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.