In a photograph I kept long afterour divorce, she is seated, gesturingto the boyfriend before me, in Italy.Torcello, I imagine. He has been cutout. She wears a soft, light, sleeveless dressthat became my favorite. I liked its touch,how it touched her. She gestures from her wrist,her forearms upright on the table. Her quickbrown eyes ignore the camera and hintof something worthy of her smile. I kept itin a leather box on my dresser and tookit up again every so often. EventuallyI knew enough to give it to our son.
Copyright © 2019 by David Hamilton.
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Reproduced by Poetry Daily with permission.
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