(About) the Photograph
The photograph will grow on you. Slowly at
first, then blossom in the dead of Winter like a
Jade. One day, you’ll realize the photograph
has been studying you. Watching you come
and go. Knitting as you wash dishes.
Rearranging blankets on the couch. Idling.
Yesterday, it followed you outside. To the
edge of the fire.
The photograph is never distracted by
heroines, however old-fashioned, ill-fated or
shrewd. It is content to watch you read.
It would be nice if the photo would stop.
Maybe a restraining order. But to what end?
The photograph swallowed you long ago, along
with a thousand words.