This is what I know today and will know
again tomorrow. A canopy bed
two wing-back chairs, our belongings
in a small suitcase tucked away in the closet.
In the framed print hanging above the bed,
a young girl has stopped
to feed rabbits. I count twelve.
She seems content in the cool green woods.
I look to the telephone and realize I have not
called my two small daughters since we arrived
last night. Lobster for supper and this morning
fresh blueberries, raspberries, and homemade muffins.
If I stay here long enough, will I stop remembering
them, the way I hardly remember my mother,
dead now almost twenty years, unless I hear
September Song, or see white hair
brushed smartly back from a forehead, corn-
flower blue eyes. My father died
two years ago and already he fades like late day
sun. I can't remember the exact birth date
of the daughter I gave up for adoption.
I think it must be like this, prisoners
forget their families and memorize the eyes
of guards, what changes outside a window.