by A. H. Hofer
One grows weary
of the daguerreotypes, wispy
women in their white bridal
breeze-flash,
the gray gazes
through wire glasses, pin-
striped suits, mildew.
And the later images laced
onto faded paper, gloss
cracked, the straw hats
of the Great Depression,
desperations of strangers.
Later, the color comes, but
these odd shades yellow
around their Packards,
their Studebakers, children
busting out in a line with wicker
baskets across the fairgrounds
eager Easter morning, frozen.
They are tiresome, too.
No wonder we find them
in flea markets, antique stores,
attics, dumps.
My grandmother goes blank
beyond her bifocals, mentions
how well her mother looked
yesterday, how the Germans
won’t hold out much longer,
how she will tomorrow marry
my grandfather.
It is impossible to keep track
of all these images.
Nevertheless
I feather dust the wrought
iron frame around my nephew’s
new face, hope for the best,
and continue to rearrange
the furniture of this life,
remembering this
and that.
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A. H. Hofer teaches English at Brown Mackie College-Cincinnati. He is a graduate of the MFA Program at Wichita State University, and his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Barrier Islands Review, Willow Springs, and Ascent Aspirations. He lives in Covington, Kentucky. |
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