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Some Empty Frames
- Red Hen Press
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18 soMe eMpty FraMes Once out of the water,they no longer resemble anything. And so it is outside of dreams. —Antoine de Saint-Exupery The last house we lived in— we no longer belong. New people now with a passion for wall clocks, velvet, unvacuumed carpets, and boxers made mute by leather muzzles. “We must learn not to be so critical,” you warned.You tugged on my arm and held my hand, admitting finally you were confused—the tiles, that orange and blue from Mexico, the crystal vases, iron spiral staircase, all had been lifted and excused.The kitchen, a gray porcelain, is un-American, mousy-mouthed, you said— everything you aren’t.This is a place without heat, a time now wrong. Some empty frames, the strangers, not long lost relatives from your side or his, real mysteries who brought it all with them— all, like the past you don’t remember. Oh, Mother, I saw the flush in your face, a pink, post-menopausal match to the grace of a young newlywed alone on an avenue in a Quebec suburb.The shadows of elms swimming ideograms all over the snowy white tops of your shoes, sweet black fish, angels you said, that face Forward, Forward— March, and never back to see what’s happened— to whom, or what for. ...