Janet Lowery (reprinted from Laurels, 1993)
That Picture I Didn’t Take
in Ireland—in Galway—that man
walking on the seawall with his mate—
his look of apologetic awareness
in appraisal of scrutiny.
We rode rented bicycles towards
grassy bluffs in the distance
on the other side of the shops
course—we rode past him
walking, his face tanned
a rich coffee color
and lined with symmetrically
curved wrinkles that cut
across his forehead and cheeks
like a wash of deadly
calm waves, his brow
worried and curious, ironic
with Irish wit, sheepish
with insight—that’s the face
I see when I close my eyes
at night—that face whose
expression—so familiar it hurt—
I try to draw now
with words—my kinsman—his hair
brown and wavy, his vivid
eyes pinned directly
blue as the blue of his shirt,
as the Atlantic sea straight
behind him, and deep, twice
as deep as the sea, and dark
with that terrible human light.
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