Photographs the Size of Poems
John Foulcher
In our family album, you are the lost city,
the spot marked with an x. Here in sepia
you�re nineteen, just out of the army, bent
to attention, as seamless as your uniform.
At your wedding, you�re a thick black
shadow on the velveteen curtains. Here,
later, the paunch you�d never develop
is settling above your belt. Your frown,
like a breeze ruffling the surface of water.
Perhaps the car was playing up, perhaps
you were thinking of money and bills
or something you hadn�t done at work,
everything in the photo is slightly blurred.
Christenings. Birthdays. Often, it seems,
you�ve dug up a smile and polished it clean
for the cameras, while Mum looks on
with a nervous, fluttering grin, as if she were
always warning Do be careful, love, won�t you.
You rarely went to church but believed,
I think, in manners, decency and facing up
to lies. Sometimes there were Sundays
like this one, where you�ve got us ready
for North Ryde Methodist, mainly to show
your pious relatives you could do the right
thing by us. The minister, your cousin,
welcomed us at the door, he was dappled
with appeasement but in the service noted
those he�d like to see here more often. After that,
you stayed away, but you said it was all right
for us to go back, if that was what we wanted.
Mum had lugged us kids up to Ryde Oval
to see you batting for the First Grade XI
on this ambling Saturday. It�s just on tea,
the scoreboard drums your unbeaten hundred
and you�ve hurried over to tell us about it.
But she�s had enough of mothering, and says
something about sport that all wives must
think. In the long shadows, you�re ready
to walk back out with your bundle of runs
while she�s wandered away for a cuppa
with the other women. Secretly, glancing
up at the game, she watches you take strike
for the final session. And she�d remember
how you charged out to the first delivery
and were bowled, and the whole game was lost.
There�s nothing here from the month you died,
and the year�s only snap in the album is a cool
Christmas Day at Auntie Dulce�s in Bankstown.
Though the gifts are all indoors, we three boys
sag before the tent Dulce and Henry had raised
for us, a thin windy house as frail as being alive.
The back yard is a smear of weather. Dressed
as if for church, each of us clutches the other�s
hand, you�d think we were holding each other up,
staring into the lens like stiff Catholic apostles.
The rain�s bucketing down. Mum�s somewhere else.
In my dream it�s snowing, the air�s like ash
and your breath looks like smoke. Wind
makes its artistry in the cold, daubing flakes
of ice all over the lens. I wipe them away
but they come back, they�re multiplying,
dividing, like cells under a microscope.
Your face is frozen to an oval miniature,
glistening, out of focus. The camera shakes
in my hands, the cold gets colder, and I call
into the waste between us Smile, Dad. Smile.
Les
Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 11/01/2022 02:14PM by lg.