yearbooks

i only have about 
six yearbooks from
kindergarten through 
12th grade

they're haphazard on
the floor of my old bed room 
with the rain forest
rustling on the walls

this world is for posing

book clubs & 
softball teams perpetually 
lining up for the right shot

i didn't have a good picture
of myself until probably
middle school

in 5th grade i had
startled wide-eyes &
hair sticking up
like a handful of dry 
november leaves

2004 there's black & white
candid shots
of the playground
3rd grade

if the photograph 
had remembered color 
my jacket would be lime green &
a boy would be daring me 
to cross the monkey bars
but my arms are too weak

i've been thinking about
all the yearbooks i'm missing 

the ones we didn't end up buying

i didn't get one for all
of middle school 

i think of my young stout
self lonely on other people's shelves

sitting at the lunch table
by myself with a cup of
apple juice & a turkey & cheese sandwich

i think of her thick hair 
& the knots at the base of her neck

does she sing in chorus photographs
or just mouth the words?

are there images of me at
hawk mountain in 6th grade?
sweaty & at the back of the group

sitting at north look out
& chewing sour cream & onion chips
one at a time-- wiping crumbs
on my jeans

it bothers me that i don't
know what images of myself
those years have

did i smile for the class photos?

i've been thinking
that maybe god makes his own yearbooks
for all of us

that maybe there's some
big hall in heaven full of volume
after volume--

he takes pictures of everything

squatting in the window
with his disposable kodak camera
when we played inside
for recess on a rainy day 
in March of 3rd grade

there's nothing that special 
other than that Mrs. Bowman
let us use with her stuffed
sheep & we all played pretend

flash in the window

sound of winding camera

the angels take part too

they're skilled at night time photography

sitting in the evergreen
tree in the front lawn to
peer my bed room between
the wispy green blinds 
to see my father reading
me the 5th book 
from the series of unfortunate events

he takes sips of magic hat beer
& his white socks have holes
bore in the heels from acid
at work

i don't think i'd like
to see those yearbooks

they'd be too large for
a human lap

like those dictionaries
at the library that 
lay splayed out on their
own pedestals--
a little ribbon to 
keep your place 

only god reads them

touches their spines
sending goosebumps through
the year

it comforts me 
to know that they exist

that even when i forget
to take pictures that 
the greater powers are 
working on the next volume

i see angels
in the dark rooms of heaven

close-pinning each shot
on the wall & standing back
to survey them--

they agree that this
year they should include
a few of me & you

my head resting on
your shoulder 
the  blue couch a kind
of palm that held us

the silhouettes of our bodies
in the glow of tea candles
on your book case

the back seat of
my car with your sweatshirt
& my jean jacket 

oh god please tell 
me you got that one

i'll step back
into that picture someday 
when you're not keeping
eye on all the yearbooks 

ripples around my feet

the photograph swallowing me
like a warm puddle of 
melted sleet