Winter 07

One of the few
I have of you
is of you with your gardener friend
standing beside a boulder with Half Dome rising
—like a sleepy-stupid head
from napping—behind you,
before that cornflower California sky.

He’s smiling like a jackass, your man-friend,
while you’re turned away from the camera,
tanned face a study of concentration
as your fingernails exhume some stuck fossil
from between his equine teeth.

The pose he’s struck
is completely undeterred
by the woman clinging to his mouth.

It’s like he doesn’t even notice you’re there.

My two months out West
—from Reno to LA,
Mono to San Jose—
hookah-bars and white sands and ten dollar strip-clubs—
and this alone I have to adduce:


	Photograph At Nevada Falls By Douglas W. Millikin

	One of the few I have of you is of you with your gardener friend standing beside a boulder with Half Dome rising —like a sleepy-stupid head from napping—behind you, before that cornflower California sky. He’s smiling like a jackass, your man-friend, while you’re turned away from the camera, tanned face a study of concentration as your fingernails exhume some stuck fossil from between his equine teeth. The pose he’s struck is completely undeterred by the woman clinging to his mouth. It’s like he doesn’t even notice you’re there. My two months out West —from Reno to LA, Mono to San Jose— hookah-bars and white sands and ten dollar strip-clubs— and this alone I have to adduce:
		my sister in profile preening the thumb who finally broke her heart.

	Douglas W. Milliken lives and works in Portland, Maine. He says: "When my sister read the poem, she was pretty upset. She didn't like it at all, and as soon as she read it, I regretted showing it to her. But I guess that's to be expected when you memorialize a moment in someone's life that even you wish had never happened."