Poems

At first glance,
the photograph in Down East of a young man
              viewed through a fish tank
is my uncle's portrait on Grandmother's vanity:
    the 'sea weeds', Laminaria, are curtains
framing the mirror; the corals and the conch -
    now defunct and therefore only knickknacks -
    are flasks of eau de violette, a scent
Louis Napoleon wore, a scent my uncle wore;
    the nautilus, its posterior chambers
now empty of gas, an iridescent powder box.

To the eyes
of the fifteen-year-old boy in bed beside me,
                this face, crystalized
forever in its clear amber medium,
    is not remarkable. He does not
...