She knows, she’s serious,
she’s square to camera,
Tell it straight, her Gram always said.
Beside her, Gram curled unaware.
The camera ready,
ever-poised, overexposing.
Her Gram cannot tell
it straight. Her body leads
her backwards, away
from poise.
Cannot tell square from
crooked, cannot tell
it straight. Her thoughts
in one light double-shadowed,
white unbalanced in another.
Caught sleeping, away into dreams
of albums, sharp edges
black cornered, pasted, clean.
Awake, she unravels
like Penelope, hoping the sailor
whose name she cannot remember
will not be long. Will he be long?
The camera tells it,
squares the napping frame,
knows well the timer
about to collapse the scene.
Sarah Winn is a Completion Fellow in George Mason University’s Creative Writing Poetry MFA program. By day, she is a mild mannered grad student. By night, she is a free range librarian, roaming the streets, looking for someone to subject to a book talk.
© 2013, Sarah Winn
Halfway Down the Stairs 