For Marcy, Her Life

I find a snapshot of her
in Ocean City, looking serious

for once. What a strange
weekend that was, disquieting

and tense. She couldn’t stop
the jokes. I failed her

when she called long distance,
was first diagnosed.

She never saw the poem I wrote
praising her grit. Tornado

sky today, gray-green
and ominous. And now

the rain arrives
and the thunder,

and the trees on my street
bend nearly double

in the wind—
as if to apologize.

***

Blurry Sepia Photograph  

Facing east in her sunbonnet,
she reminds me
of a ship’s wooden figurehead

dividing the sea,
its blind painted eyes
full of secrets. My sister

standing behind her
leans into her shoulder
for solace or support,

linking her curved right arm
to our grandmother’s
straight one. The sunbonnet

hides much of Anna’s face
but her posture suggests
detachment, disinterest

in the business right
in front of her: Mama
on her hands and knees

with my two blond brothers
picking strawberries.
I am not in the picture.

Either I’m still in utero,
rocking upside down,
or sleeping

like the baby in the nightmare
lullaby, the cradle
expected to fall.

The print itself is blurry
as a Richter oil
dueling with the camera,

his photographic image
barely present, mostly
erased, in tension

with the paint. So many
layers to evoke
subterranean depths,

the war that lies beneath
crossing an ocean,
watching your children die,

taking as long as it takes
to love the life
you’ve been given.

Photo by Alex Conchillos via pexels