A Photograph

A Photograph

We did not know that man: thickrimmed glasses, grey sweater
At Papa’s countryclub birthday, tilting a full glass of water
To his bored dry head at such an angle we thought he was
Pouring it into his ear, which made our laughter pour out
Until it filled our matching sibling dimples. To us, that man’s
Corner-of-the-party grayness was only an alibi he pulled
So he could live out his secret pleasure: the water went in
Through his ear’s filter-feelers (in our childhood anatomy),
Filled his head tank, cascaded through a series of chutes,
Overturned buckets and waterslid bloodcells and cake
Through his body into his tickled toes, which wriggled
And swelled up like dolmas from the countryclub buffet.
O guy-not-really-pouring-water-in-your-ear, I lost
My clear skin and faith in God, but I did not lose faith
That the world could be so strange as to permit
The joy you never really had. It is in fact much stranger.