If I really knew you, these are the ones I would pick.
I’d like to see that faded Polaroid
from five years ago
in your bathrobe
eating corn flakes
some frizzy hairs sticking out
not especially thrilled to be photographed
the same day, though you may have forgotten,
that you went to the park by the river
and watched cardinals chase cardinals all afternoon.
How about the one of you
in a tight black Grateful Dead shirt
on the yellow comforter in your room
with your marvelous smile, amused and natural
athletics ribbons on the wall
and your line drawing of the Wonder Wheel
you’re looking up
the Dead skull’s looking down
magnolia blossoms quiver at the window.
Is that still around your mom’s house somewhere,
or am I just imagining this one?
The picture of you that I really want
is a poster print, autographed in silver
with a heart and a large, looping L
like the drop and a hill on a roller coaster.
You are boldly silhouetted on white
your expression too formidable to count as a smile
lipstick, eye shadow, the whole thing
your hair a slick curve
pulling up short of your right shoulder
tailored jacket and black miniskirt
fishnet stockings to the middle of your thighs
feet set apart
you are determination and sophistication.
In a moment, it seems,
you’ll aim a gun right back at the camera
and leave ‘em guessing whether you pull the trigger.