Without Photos
Down Lake Michigan, this white sand
took generations to crush it from rock.
Beyond sandpiper’s and bald hill,
winds of dry dunes flip my protective lenses down,
and I see your smile, your crusted jaw,
sand trapped on your neck of grit on grits.
Before, we talked about homes
and the steps down to here, the soft heel
of your foot on my leg by the stairs,
our loose necks wobbling like the flutter
of silver leaves on white poplars
populating the shoreline,
imagining our past against a pebbled beach,
seal after elephant seal in those California days,
laughing at the blubbery bodies
born with fur that we have become,
expanding freely into our skin,
dazzling as forming waves.
But we never have a phone,
so we remember to be present
without taking photos of ourselves.
Helping you up the steps,
looking across the sand,
speaking to waves,
calling up the hills
of our furry ears.
Jan Wiezorek writes from Michigan and is author of the poetry chapbook Prayer’s Prairie (Michigan Writers Cooperative Press). Wiezorek’s work has appeared in The London Magazine, The Westchester Review, BlazeVOX, and elsewhere. He taught writing at St. Augustine College, Chicago, and he holds a master’s degree in English Composition/Writing from Northeastern Illinois University, Chicago. The Poetry Society of Michigan awarded him, and he is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Visit janwiezorek.substack.com.
