I Picture You All Ages


I begin by picturing you 
walking as a child to the bus stop,
glancing over your shoulder,
hoping to see your father’s cab. 

I see you putting on your face.
I see you when putting on 
your face didn’t matter. 
I picture you then and now.

When your face fell, 
so disappointed in me,
I pictured you swallowing the pain
I prescribed for you.  

Thousands of perfect images
I painted to get inside you.
I picture you laughing, waking,
skin moist like early morning air. 

I picture you at full woman,
not a glamour girl in photos. 
Yes, I picture you in every place,
every fingersnap of real time.

I picture you dancing crazily.
I picture you angry, near fuming.
And crying. And flushed,
peeking out from under white quilts.

I hear you silent 
and hear you singing,
when you don’t know I hide
behind the door, holding back a breath. 

I picture you when my heart 
pumped whole healthy,
before it was half that.
Before we counted it down.  

I picture you old with me,
though we’ll never be old together. 
No, it will never seem fair,
especially if I can’t picture at all, 

and you in your wicker rocker
can’t see us anymore. 
I picture Greek lilies on our sill. 
I picture you all ages.