Jane Zwart
for Abel
This morning I saw the back of my husband’s father’s head
and he just risen from sleep
was keen on the picture window first
which was how a gray cowlick—
a whorl of hair ironed upward—let me see
the boy he once was.
I’d tried to spot that boy before. I’d studied
the snapshot kindergartener
but he winced just as the shutter yawned
and the Dutchman running the shop was not prodigal.
He printed the photo as it was and hung it up front
where it may or may not have
curried local favor. In the meantime
the blurry kid emigrated. So did decades
before he turned tourist and came back
and there it still was in the camera-shop’s window.
How quickly he bought the likeness,
my husband’s father, how quickly
he pocketed the gray boy
with unfocussed eyes and wooden shoes
and then hung him in the hall—it’s a story
he likes telling.
But I didn’t buy the likeness.
Every year for his Christmas
my father-in-law asks
only for black socks bought cheap
or for birdseed. Once a border agent split
the bag of millet
in our trunk and I dreamed
a banderole of birds
to peck at our rear wheel wells
while my husband drove
in the direction of the picture
I queried each year.
The man whose son I wed
and the kid in the candid:
I was able only to tell them apart.
But this morning
I saw the back of Abel’s head
and (he just risen from sleep)
my husband’s father’s hair
was the hair of a child
roused from humid dreams. He was keen
on the picture window first
and leaned into the glass, in socks,
without his glasses.
This is all that happened:
a red smudge, a house finch’s head, wet his eyes
and I whispered Hide
to every comb in the house.
Jane Zwart teaches English at Calvin University, where she also co-directs the Calvin Center for Faith & Writing. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Poetry, Ploughshares, and TriQuarterly, as well as other journals and magazines.