-
Pixels
- Red Hen Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
17 Pixels The top of the photo says October, 1969, Which was the end of the sixties,Altamonte, All those shootings, but I knew Nothing about this. In the photo I’m five, My sister’s two, I’m walking for once Next to my mother because my sister’s On my father’s back, one of those old Steel-barred A-frame backpacks, and the dog Follows right behind. It’s upstate NewYork, there’s old cornstalks To my left, trees with leaves Just losing green behind.We’re in The middle of a field it seems, Grasses pass my father’s knees, My mother’s thighs, and rise right up To my waist.You can just see the dog’s head Peeking through; my sister Clearly has the best view. She’s not Looking, thumb in mouth, And even as my mother and father Face the camera I’m turned aside, Some dark plant in my clenched fist, My brow knit hard against the lattice-work of weeds, My mother’s hand on my shoulder Almost as if to keep me from disappearing Into those green-and-browning cornstalks, Some pastoral except the sixties lived here, Too, our own Altamonte, my parents Like those security guards meant to keep the peace Who reverted to some other nature, We four caught here in a passion Of paradise starting to break And at five, I knew Their lives wouldn’t mend Even within these wide-armed trees, 18 The damage you can’t see in their faces Beginning to seep out like pixels Rushing to blot us all out. ...