The Innisfree Poetry Journal

www.innisfreepoetry.org

by Laurie Lamon

Here
         
When I saw the photo you took of me below the portico
of the National Portrait Gallery, my arms clasped behind my back,
I could see the man on the steps holding a phone to his ear,
the tourist, perhaps, walking in our direction, the girl
leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette,
and then, in my profile, how I look like my mother
who does not know I was here, who has not seen me in years
or feel how the bones of my face ache when I lean
my hand against hers when I am tired.


After His Death

Not the one when I said I wanted it you gave me.

Winter was behind you in the bare trees    the trees
you planted too close to the house.

I said the one left before bed
on the table with the wallet and coins the handkerchief
   
you remember this    he twisted and dipped into paint
working a corner     

as when an insect alights    adjusts the manner of wings.

Now the cap is visible     is blue.



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