THE GIANT

this is another time i've
mistaken that NC Wyeth painting
for a memory.
a great giant made of clouds 
passing by a group of
girls on the beach. 
you tell me 
"it's about growing up."
it used to hang in the guest
room of grandmom's apartment
above the wicker end table
& next to the black metal-work bison 
poised on top of the book case.
there i imagined the girl
in the yellow dress
(the one a little farther 
away from the group) 
as you. your hair isn't black 
but maybe it was when you
were as young as her.
her feet towards us, i can
see the stones in them. 
the callouses on your heels
that sink you when you tried
to walk on water. 
i sink too, the bottom
falling out of the creek,
plummeting, bubbles trailing
from my mouth like bread crumbs.
the witch's house is a pile
of rice, fold me over. 
i'm thinking
of coming in when you were
taking a bath, the smell of
lavender & thinking of you 
as a brush stroke waiting to
be undone, saw you wiped
off on the painter's button-up
shirt. running miles & miles 
back to the guest room 
to check you that you were still there.
touching the gold frame & 
feeling the surface ripple.
a lake. bodies bending like
koi fish beneath. 
there's one girl standing up
in the painting. i always
imagined that she was walking
away. that maybe she was ready
to leave. her hair thick & brown.
i want to cut it off with a pair
of silver craft scissors.
i guess i never thought much
about the giant because i always
assumed he wasn't really there.
i think maybe he's both of
us. that maybe someone caught
us on one of those walks up
the gravel road by the soy bean fields.
or maybe up the perkiomen trail
one morning while the sun was
blinking wrens.
i know sometimes i feel like that. 
gigantic & imagery.
you watching me on your knees
in your yellow dress from
the back of the closet that
we don't speak of.
grandmom, hands on her hips,
her hair a nesting storm cloud.
i keep on & pretend no one sees me.
the birds flush.
no earth shakes. the ocean 
folding me in. a pile of white rice.