Untitled

Albuquerque and Durango
we pulled
in air thunder
from the mountains
when we imagined
ourselves immortal
from every angle
we drifted to endure
trials of floating fire
and nocturnal
desert wanderings
sought to be rescued
in forgiveness
we rode higher


but still we sunk low
in our passion inferno
Early August suns
tempered hotter than Death’s
cascading breaths
the 12 cursed ones
while Heavens mocked
senses silent
no passion could shield
and Father showed no mercy for
Two children not yet healed

The Photo

I remember January 1964, Brooklyn was post assassination hardening,
lamppost froze finger, snow piled thickly forming mounds of multi-shades of blacks and browns,
and trees were close to snapping.
Cars slished by with gaseous fumes down the Kings Highway with honking hurrahs.
The old brick synagogue on the corner of East 18th Street was old even then.
There were patches of mortar missing and the doors of entrance stood frail and skeleton-like akin to the very men who came to pray within.
I aimed to sit at the foot of the stairs ..the five brick iced=over-cold-to-your-tush stairs.
Sat and posed with Corky my limping Border Collie
warming as ever with his presence but more so
on that January Afternoon. A Sunday?
Smile, my mother said. She held the boxy Instamatic in leather gloved hands.
Smile - the word half frozen as it sparked suspended from her lips. Chinese Red or Dragon Fire Crimson, hard to remember now in the Fall of 98, what mood she was in....
I trembled then with the cold. More so from the darkness I claimed as my own
than from Winter.
Holding on to warm dog
wagging tail,
on my knees
surrendering to one Kodak moment
and the wind laced trees
I smiled for the camera
in the New Year’s freeze.