(Stockbridge, Massachusetts)

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.