Sunday, June 16, 2013

In a photograph, my father

I. In a photograph, my father:
skin red from the sun,

his sky-blue shirt
hangs open, his eyes

wide open and calm.
He looks at the camera

like he can see who sees him:
on and on his eyes

on an ocean of time,
the sinking and his sunburnt


II. A group of kids had found him
for their scavenger hunt:

they laughed and took his picture.
I don’t know --

he doesn’t know, either --
what item they thought him.

He looks through the lens,
like all of us, wondering

how did this happen?
And will the end be just

as surprising?

(Begun 8 June 2005 [!], revised 19 April 2006, revised again on Father's Day 2013. This little ekphrasis really is in response to a photograph, and there really was a scavenger hunt. How a scavenger list predicted or accommodated my father is anyone's guess.)

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