Kathryn Hawkins
PICTURE THIS
I’ve got a picture of you
falling off your bike under Interstate 5,
taken in July, 1989. The photo’s
full of grass and gravel, just a smear
of Technicolor teenage boy, feathered
hair and stonewashed jeans, shooting
sideways out of frame. Look closely
and you’ll find your mouth: a wide black
dot. Your left arm almost skims against
the asphalt, just before you split the bone
in two. The bike’s in better focus; shining
rouge and chrome, arcing gracefully
to meet the ground. I still hang it here
in the garage, paled and powdered with dust,
handles warped and twisted
from the impact. And you, my son,
15 years past, still scarred; rivets
down your back, the stiffness of your hand
that last touched mine the day
I didn’t rush to catch you, but stood back
and tripped the shutter.
Current | Previous
Submit | Editors
Join | Donate
Links | Contact
Sundress Publications
|