This is not my cousin
This is me coming to terms with my profile
but my cousin, who is always taking
my photograph, Kristen, is always in the car.
Look, I'm standing over this hole
in Centralia, Pennsylvania
at the mouth of a mine that's been smoking
longer than we've been alive, that burned
while we were busy stealing each other's clothes.
We enjoy this place, skipping the detour
on Route 61, entering the toxic zone
trespassing up back of the Catholic church
where kids used to drink and smoke pot.
We stopped off where our Grandmother is buried,
looked behind all the trees but couldn't find her.
This is not Eurydice looking back
there are no flowers, there is no pity
when the wind chill factor reaches ten below.
This is me in my get-lucky red scarf
the two ends of which point to infinity.
See, the ground crosses the invisible lines
forming an isosceles triangle.
This is not the sensational human
condition. God is not in the picture
just me and trees and my cousin's shadow.
We like how I am standing on the high place
a smiling paper-doll propped up on the edge
about to step back, waving to Columbus.
My cousin's hands are freezing pink grasping
her crutches she's climbing back up
the hill with difficulty saying
if I fall you better catch me.
This was right after the Christmas dinner.
We're not married or having babies
like my sisters so we disappeared, snuck out
to see the fire and visit our Grandmother's grave.
previously published in West Branch 28 (1991)
Copyright © Valerie Fox 2007 - 2008