Photo Never Taken
I wish I had
a photo of you
throwing the fish back—
the perch too small
to scale or fillet—
when the only food
you could consume
was what you grew
and then later preserved
or what you caught
with baited hook or
trap. Sometimes you
waited with bated breath
when you bet paychecks
and shot dice, and later
when you met me
that first time,
my eyes looking back
at you, your baby’s eyes,
the same eyes
as your mother’s, and yours.
I wish someone had
taken your photo
when you recognized me,
captured that instant
abandonment to denial
of what could only be yours—
almost like a snapshot
of God at creation,
surprised at the knowledge
of what was created—
the inevitable image consecrated
to an end written
before photos were keepsakes,
of life spent fishing
another day on another lake
where the water is
always clear, always full
of too little fish.
© Claudia M. Stanek
Claudia M. Stanek’s work has been turned into a libretto, been part of an art exhibition, and been translated into Polish. She is the author of the chapbooks Beneath Occluded Shine and Language You Refuse to Learn. She holds an MFA from Bennington College. Claudia resides in East Tennessee.
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