Alice O. Howell   

ON FINDING A PICTURE OF MY MOTHER

TAKEN BY LAKE GENEVA, 1934

My God, dear Death!

 you were the photographer

 that night

 taking our measure deftly

 as you moved between the coffee cups

 and the laughter on the lawn

were you her friend?

 did you walk with her to the water's edge

 and hold her lilacs

 and watch the lights go out

 across the silks of spring?

did you spare

 all little boys in sailor suits

 and all little girls with bows in their hair?

 and did she touch your arm

 and say gently:

     please interrupt no picnics tomorrow

     speak softly in Italian

     while they have their pictures taken!

of course, you did not catch

 the paddle wheels of the boat's hushed whispers

 or the absurd hearts of the knobby plane trees

 or the endless tango music of the dark

     it must have been getting late

did she cry out

     not tonight, dear!

     no, no, not in the hotel!

     my daughter sleeps -

         only come up with me

         and place your smile

         between my eyes

        before you kiss me

and sweep a great arc of light

before me, to warm me

    I must pull all my love in

        it must not show

        before you develop

        the negative.

                    a.o.howell

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