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Old Pictures
Nothing says death like old pictures,
grey on grey,
their subjects stiff as plaster casts
in Pompeii,
blank stares fixed on eternity—
like caryatids
bearing the world’s entablature.
I wonder,
how long can the living hold
that pose
before an itch, a sneeze, maybe
just boredom
smears them into ghosts?
And here I am, rummaging
boxes,
holding a picture up to the light:
James, John
says the faded ink on the back.
That you’ve no
idea who they might be matters
not at all.
You’ve shared that thousand mile
stare
borne the monumental weight
of longing,
breathed with them the ashen air.
Richard Spilman was born and raised in Normal, Illinois, half a block from Main Street, in a house that backed onto Sugar Creek. He has not lived in Normal for quite a while, but it follows him everywhere.