In the Photograph
her hair is not so blonde,
the paint isn’t peeling around the
window. She is calm. The room’s
blue shutters are less blue
than the veins below her wrists
and ankles or small irises
drifting behind her hair.
The woman does not look back, stares
over the photographer’s shoulder.
He is her husband, imagines this shot
will make him known, at least
bring him a spread, a spot
in some gallery where a collector
will pounce on it, high on
such a find. The dark saliva at
the corners of his mouth is what
his wife remembers, not how he threw a
black stone at her cat when she
lies twisting under gauze where some
of the curves he focused on
are whittle away, the rest blasted with
x-ray, knows until the bandages
are removed he won’t dare hit her.
When she returns to the
blue house she had pine cones
and wishbones in, he is no
longer pretending to hang on her
words but is hanging in the
hallway. All the photographs are
labeled and mounted. She says she
wouldn’t have wanted anything
any other way
7 Year Old Finds Her Mother’s Body
The cat was walking on the
table, lapping up cream from
the blue pitcher that’s broken
now. But Mommy didn’t say
anything when the man with
frizzy hair came in. She just
said go upstairs even though I
wasn’t finished. I was drinking
milk and watching cartoons.
She didn’t even say to put
on my school clothes. Then I
heard things falling and a
clunk. I went to the cellar.
Mommy had her arm like a
doll dripped out of a car
and her face wasn’t there
It was Shadows in Dreams, She Said, Worse than Claws
like standing before a class
naked, unprepared. It was
like getting the book for
her mother autographed
then having her die before
this birthday gift. She took
care of the apartment after
he died. There was a cat,
something about that. The
claws maybe. Taking care
of things. It happened, the
way in a dash of funerals
or deaths there were boxes
to pack. She seemed like a
woman who never wanted a
cat. It was her friend’s apart-
ment after the boyfriend
whose cat it was od’d on
heroin. A mild cat, easier to
dispose of than the dead
lover and so trusting she
vowed to pick the cat back
up from the SPCA in the
72 hours before they gas it.
Then in the hot Harlem July,
after wine and a flat, she
drives away, still wakes up
20 years later drenched in
sweat, shaking that there was
something she forgot to do
He uses all his “Up” Up on the Radio
He guffaws, goes after the
double meaning, doubles
over. He’s on the floor
and he’s doing the moon
walk he chortles after the
news, hopes his crutches
don’t clang, his fake leg
make them wonder how
much of him is not real.
He calls women dear,
reads mail as he does
this, eats potato chips.
Women call from bubble
baths. He grunts, babe
you got me hot over 50
thousand watts as his ice
tea gets diluted as his stories
the 17th time around. I’m on
the up he yucks 3 times to
be sure you know what he
means, drives his Chevy
thru lemon light back to
rooms the windows are
blotted over with black
cloth, so down, so used
up he’s not up for anything
Earl Calls Talk Radio, Drifts from City to City
you know, if I check into
a plush hotel they mister
me up and down. Once I left
my money, lived for 2 weeks
as a bum but I hate myself:
I didn’t believe there were
homeless and I had credit
cards, my aunt’s stocks in
my hotel waiting. I want to
write, am heading toward
bayous, the Delta moans,
you know that gulfside sand
in a cheap room’s pine
drawers, catfish, Galveston,
Zephyr. He puts tangerine
sun, an old beggar’s white
sox down on paper. Night’s
musk licks the blues as kudzu
spreads jade over a house
overnight and he leaves on a
Greyhound west to Texas,
McDonald’s honey for sweet-
ness, fireflies for stars to
navigate by
from my book:
Before It's Light - Lyn Lifshin
$16.00 (1-57423-114-6/paper)
$27.50 (1-57423-115-4/cloth trade)
$35.00 (1-57423-116-2/signed cloth)
Black Sparrow Press
