Selective Memory
She opens the family album,
collected moments caught in
the amber of old sunsets,
faded polaroids,
a ribbon
or two pressed
between
sheets of cellophane
Familiar faces, stripped
of years, wearing those crazy
bell bottoms and big glasses,
bigger hair–that was Tom,
now sporting more forehead and
less chin, leaning over her shoulder
pointing to the one they
took on the beach that day
Her hair flies in the wind, curling
across his face as they stride, he
is reaching for her and both are
laughing, that day eight months
and twenty-nine days before
their eldest was born, the boy
now sleeping upstairs
the night before his wedding
She looks and him and
he looks at her and
they smile