Ancestors
They stand in front of the big fenders
And headlights, bulbous chrome grille
With Indian chief hood ornament
Which lights up in the dark.
In the background is a magnolia tree
And part of a house, a clothesline strung
Across gray space; a black and white
Bulldog sits at their feet
Making its smudged face of teeth.
Each thing is in its place:
Nothing worried about their eyes,
No problem with belief.
They're confident about the truth,
Sporting short fat ties
With gold watch chains hanging from vests
Of white, baggy suits—
Yet nothing says they're aloof or braggart.
Things are in their places:
The dime cigars they hold spoofing; spats
Shined—parts known by heart.
The women are inside the house
Finishing the chicken;
The thin one married to the son
Still dreams of being a nurse,
And doesn't talk much to the other
Who married again for fun.
At church they sang and took communion
This bright, airy Easter,
And now they'll go for a ride in the country,
And eat chicken under
Some big oak at the edge of a pasture,
And everything will be
“Pretty as a picture,” set
With only a cloud or two
Drifting across a spotless sky,
Everyone forgets . . .
The lean years behind; the children
Growing up strong, knowing
Right from wrong; and business booming—
A time sweet as Eden:
The fields of wheat like a table run
Smooth and green to the horizon;
And the cows graze painted
Into the blue air and sun.
The Kodak clicks, and they sigh out
Breath, joking, ready
To go, as the women emerge from the dark
Screen door in big hats,
With picnic basket, mocking a gesture
Of impatience; the engine starts,
Dresses are smoothed and doors shut—
No one knows who took the picture.
(reprinted with thanks from Writers' Forum)
