if you’re looking hard enough,
you’ll see the yellow, the reckless
sunshine of who you were. the
view from the porch doesn’t end here.
when i show her my house
for the first time, i give her the tour:
here is the living room, where winter
curls around the flicked-switch fireplace;
here is the kitchen, where this family’s women
are buried; here are my blinds.
i never close them. here: A Portrait of
The Artist as a Young Girl, arms up,
belly out. in every photo, she is looking
if you look down the road, you may
still see me. i haven’t left just yet.
please wave—i promise i’ll wave back.