poetry by Kara Van De Graf from MQR 53:3, Summer 2014
From the grandmother of my grandmother, it lives
at the footboard of the bed, passed down to me
by my own mother. As a child, I traced
the blonde-wood petals of flowers, the garden
etched with dark walnut vines. And below,
near a lip of scrollwork, two narrow drawers kept
in check by a key. It was only when I slid
the drawers from their runners that I noticed
the false front. There, she kept the photographs,
grouped together with butcher’s twine, the stack
of images that held her body naked and young.
When I found them, I couldn’t help but feel
I had stolen from her twice: first by breaching
what she had locked, and then by seeing
her with my eyes—the gray-tipped swells
of her breasts, the white shoulder hunching
round. I held my own body up to the mirror,
tried to strike, like an echo, the identical pose.
Then I did the same as any child who has found
more than they asked for; I kept one for my own.
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This excerpt is featured content from the
Summer 2014 issue
For ordering information or to find out more about the contents of this issue, click here.
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