Our Model

And getting into this act of faith, I whistle

Five tuneless notes lamely at random,

A Listen-to-Me, an amateur call for help,

And without a pause, in the midst of all it knows

By heart already, it gives me back my song

In the sincerest form of mockery: as revised,

Perfected, and immortalized by a master.

OUR MODEL

By the forest pond while I sit watching

Under the maples, she makes up her features

In a compact mirror for a photographer,

Already a picture in pale green and rose.

When he points to a green ledge, she tiptoes there

Unsteadily on high heels, lifting aside

The ferns with her fingernails, bends down to feel

A fabric-sample of moss, then seats herself.

Undisturbed by birdsong, she begins posing,

Tilting her face in profile, then suddenly

Confronting the lens wide-eyed. The air-soft swirl

Of her hair comes sweeping darkly along her cheekbones.

Again and again she turns, always surprising

Herself for the camera's eye: Oh, who in the world

Are you? And what on earth are you going to say?

An ice-blue damselfly swerves at her knee.

The sun goes dim. They wait with a casual boredom,

Indifferently regarding leaves and clouds

As matters of time. Then they see me

Sprawled in a shadow with an open notebook.

They take me in at a glance, calmly. I write

Some words to show I'm minding my own business.

They go on waiting for light

DAVID WAGONER

She smiles at some secret. She knows her audience

Of two is drinking her in, but remains faithful

To herself in her own fashion

As I must now, till the end of the session

When she rises (spiked heels shaky on spike moss)

To brush earthiness from her, stretches her arms,

And balances away through the yielding grass,

Not turning to look back.

The pond shimmers and clears. In its reflection

The shades of maple leaves recover the sky.

OUR FATHER

He held so much

Anger in him quiet

Heavy nobody

Had ever hit him

Once he never had to

Hit anybody either

But would just look

Hard in the face

Those hands that flat

Belly it was over

Before any slap back talk

Could start our father

Snored through the wall

So loud beside us

We could still hear

Him in the morning

When he was gone

To work in the rumble

Screech clank slam

Of the rusty steelmill

That made him all week

Too tired too far

Away burned up