From the Poetry Retreat/Workshop

Fairborn Independence Day Parade

Within the frontiers, the alien is already there,

an exoticism or Sabbath of memory,

a disquieting familiarity.

--Michel de Certeau

Past tall trees, shadows long and lacey,

midtone, nostalgia grey, two horses

and their riders approach, backlit.

Bored boys sit on the curb, hunched,

awaiting, it seems, more action. Behind--

far behind the riders--a large-front truck

pulls we don't know what: float,

tank, missile (It is the Cold War after all).

Near the vanishing point, down the quiet street:

hints of procession, perhaps patriotic regalia.

Is it American to ride a horse?

Both riders--clearly the focal point here--

wear kerchiefs, the man a western hat.

They sit long and straight, their erectness speaking

of ease and joy. The paint horse, Corky, comes

straight on to the camera, ears alert, ridden by a girl

perhaps fourteen, large for her age,

full-figured, her hair doubtless done

just for the day by my mother who must also hold

the camera, pressing the shutter release at precisely this

moment. I, beside or behind her, unhorsed

by choice, am also happy in the shadow, as I suppose.

Syd's hair surrounds a pretty face, though we cannot

see it for distance and light. Nor my father's,

though their silhouettes are as unmistakable as time.

Dad's horse, Bobby, clearly spirited, tosses his head,

its ears, not quite back, suggest hot blood,

an awkward rear hoof thrown carelessly

on this day of freedom bespeaks

an attractive energy to be tamed.

I study this two-and-a-quarter inch glossy

stamped "Aug 1958," ambiguous bridge

welding me to these, flesh of my flesh,

now so long departed, destroying my autonomy

which I both surrender and insist upon, suggesting

a logic of ambiguity. I know the lie

of the two-dimensional representation

and love it anyway, no, love it for its duplicity,

driven, as I am, by my mortal yearning,

stemming, in part, from the same impulse

to costume, perform, play the role of the watched,

myself looking back, as here, parading cautiously forward.