KATHLEEN HALLERON

"MISTAKES WE KNEW WE WERE MAKING"

The only photograph that I have of myself

before I was born is the one that I

keep in my underwear drawer.

In it, my mother sits at the kitchen table.

My eight months stretches the gingham of her

sundress underneath her breasts,

suggesting my presence at the scene.

She grins, her body having accepted this heavy

company four times before.

A column of ash balances on top of her

filtered cigarette like a shadow of her

inhalations. The boy who would become

my brother stands behind her and

rests his hand on her freckled shoulder.

Her feet are propped up on the table,

lightly, so as not to shift the tumbler,

half-filled with amber and ice,

which is within her measured reach.

Twenty years and a month after this photo

was taken, my mother pushed the softened

picture into my palm and shrugged.

The explanation she offered now hangs

over her face in this one picture like a joke,

protected by a cartoon bubble.

First published in TRP’s 25th Anniversary issue, Fall 2003; copyright © 2003 by Tar River Poetry.

All rights reserved.