Mother's photo album sits, open
in my lap, and I search for the man
who no longer exists,
the man my family stopped mentioning.
Like bad breath
or toilet paper trailing
behind an elegant shoe.

Torn or scissored holes replace
spaces where his head used to be.
A headless body sits among friends,
commune mates, my relatives
after our later marriage.

Those fragmented photos aren't unlike
the random tears and rips I felt
after his sudden departure.
Blinded, I made my way recklessly
through dark days, bumped into walls,
fell often, until

one day, stone turned back to flesh again
and I remembered when Dolphins swam
with our boat, how light sizzled
when he kissed me.

He'd warned me earlier;
he was a landslide that would one day
slip out from under my feet, a moth
that would seek brighter flames.

I didn't believe him.
He was my Heathcliff, my Lancelot,
my Mr. Darcey.

Mother always said he was my road
best not taken.

I wanted to tell her she couldn't protect me
from natural disasters, illness, or men leaving,
that holes didn't erase a man's memory
and silences didn't quieten him.

Pris Campbell
(c)2007


Published in Full of Crow



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