Friday, November 16, 2007

Finger Food

Relax, there is no history now

To rise up from and overcome.

But there are some photos left

On the kitchen table like desert

Plates. Some mistaken preserve

And reward of us on a bridge

With sunset, church and mustache.

Remember these pictures waiting

To come back from the dead?

The piazza from the café, Rosetta

Memorial of family lineage in

Genealogical phrasebooks rotting

In a medieval tomb. Parchment

Like skin, none of them family.

There’s the blurred thumb or half

Face and cheek too close up to be

Made out, but I can tell is you

From sleeping that close to your

Breath. Then the mistaken

Colander of being, separating

The life juice from our fleshy

Spiral shapes, the softening juices.

And there, by the photos, are your

Fingers. Sharply bitten off, one

At a time as you held your hand up

To protect your neck. Sure, I

Remember. What I don’t, that’s

What the pictures are for, just the

Beginning of a hand, reaching out.

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