Untitled #30

his real face
you will have forgotten by now
(you don't even know
if he is alive, or well)
just a few photographs: a young
man, from good family
so few
memories
a handful of shards
which wound you whenever
you pick them up, but you
still hope to put
them together, though
it doesn't work
he is taking a picture of you
a bow in your fair hair
a velvet dress
an enormous doll
you press it
to yourself, tightly
with both hands
they are holding you in their hands
there - the three of you
sitting on a lawn
he, mother, and you
did it really exist
that world
dependable, familiar, your very own?
it is hard to believe
you are still so little
you fly to the gate at the sound
of each engine on the road
to see
perhaps it is he
coming home
and the never-spoken why
is stuck
in the throat
like a lump
bitter and burning