babyhead

And we walk on the dike with the river brown and rocky to our left. We walk under the full noon light. I think back to the little I know about photography and name the radiance in my head. Under this position of the sun there is no hiding of ones flaws, and you don't mention that the sparkle of the silver patch on the right side of my head has blossomed, and I don't say anything of the hardness I noticed in the way you hold your jaw and hands. Maybe your sisters have seen the line you have grown into.

I have seen you sleep.

We are both hot and cold, depending if the wind blows off the fields or the river.

And you ask me about her.

And I try to explain, but I must stutter in the light.

Because you say: You still can't talk about it.

And I swear I had been.

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