| Can you draw my daughter down from this tree?
I’ve tried to reach her forming chains of letters,
found most were too heavy to lift. I’m afraid
she’ll fall
when I’m not looking. I grow dizzy when I think of
it—
how few photos I took. Too often, I quickly snapped
while she stood posed, instead of capturing her unaware.
Nudge her with
your softened lead from that branch,
then catch her on your clean, white sheet. Will it help
if you place
your hands over my eyes? Commit her
features to memory, so you might portray her on paper.
Or if you kiss
me, could our tongues form a bridge
she couldn’t resist
climbing
down to cross? If not
your talent, then lend me an eraser, so I might
rub out
my doubt until it’s nothing but a nub.
Won’t you
sketch
me a ladder, so I might ascend this wretched trunk?
Better, sketch her already descending into my arms. |