Shades of Ron Defer (Revisited)

Shades of Ron Defer (Revisited)
by Halifax
In my nights of picturing Mother barren
there creeps a cloud into the frame,
a taunting whispered unwanted name.
Thousands of words in each I own of her.
Words enough I have never want for finding.
His name is not relevant to the story I am told.
The scrapbook shows a white sateen dress,
a tall cake for taking the wives communion,
distanced red eyes in a crowd blurring into brown,
full cups and gaping plates waiting in line for the picture,
Centered consuming the first piece is our father
and his bride’s patient face wearing her share unashamed.
Flip through to the first two siblings buried face deep
and tousled after a bath together tugging at her robe.
We were stealing the strength she wore.
Her eyes look heavy but tender in terry-cloth.
The photographer’s shadow pop flashed from her vanity.
It stood mirrored on the wall behind her.
The plastic sheet turns to show two more in tow.
Totaled four for now her children look to her.
An orange sun season with Polaroid burn
shows two full tables sharing her communion again.
The host sits displayed honey-glazed and transfigured.
Emptied plates she’ll baptize later litter the scene.
Seen through the pages is testament of a sacrifice.
Alone, she’d named it and called it out in anger,
“Working my fingers down to the fucking bone!”
and showed us her hand as proof it was true.
Kissing her cheek in the shot is I in stripes and plaid.
My sisters wear bright cotton, posing with faked smiles.
Hearing a name from a time when she was not my savior
unsettles my tight box of witness pictures.
The wise shades of black and whites omit him.
Pretty scenes composed to tell of purity and poise
defer for now, though the thought pries.
I have held the story true too long to make corrections.