upon a decade-younger
photo of my flushing,
sated face and chest, soused
with mammal bliss, and him so
languid in his chair, spread flesh and
fledgling love
aloft in grains
of scent and sweat, one skin
on two, and now
I tear apart
the lie, the lie
that once he claimed
was truth
2 comments:
Photos become so bittersweet with time, don't they? I didn't understand that when I was young. I thought photos would only ever bring happy memories.
@Debra ... Two nights before my mother's funeral, various and sundry siblings and spouses gathered with photos to place and display during the visitation. Well. The wine flowed and we all regressed around the dining room table, nabbing and grabbing the pictures, roaring with mirth, sobbing and bawling, gazing and sighing ... It was magical ... so was the conversation once we were spent of laughter and into the coffee and tea later on ...
:-)
Yeah, photos are precious. They're sort of like songs that you absolutely *have* to hear every once in a while ... or that you can't bear to hear right now.
If I had my druthers, there would be dozens of framed pics on the walls, I mean *dozens* ... I'm not a pack rat where things are concerned, but I do hold onto my photos :-)
Bittersweet, yes ...
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