Double Exposure

Anne Sheffield

Anne Sheffield

When she gets back her prints,
she realizes her husband shot the film first—
so their daughter pumps a long rope swing
over her brother's football team like an autumn goddess,
her friends' faces at her fifteenth birthday party
smile through yellow and black numbered uniforms,
knee-pad legs are heaps of leaves the girls jump into
weeks later without realizing, boys rush a ball down
a green field of girls with their feet in the air as they leap—
the giant dog has an oak leaf stuck to his nose
in the middle of a lilliputian huddle; and here she is, mother,
part Chinese restaurant, part stretched on the bed.
Her daughter trails long blonde lawns of sunbright leaves
down both sides of face and body like a veil and train,
and the family portrait is all raked up in a pile,
starting to blow away.

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Th is poem originally appeared in Red Cedar Review, Vol. 34 Iss. 2, 1998. For more information on this author at the time of this publication, and other online issues of this publication go to: https://d.lib.msu.edu/rcr
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