Cornerstone

there is a photo Satchel likes of you,

with me and Phillip at your side.

Phillip and I look at the camera, and we are

smiling, sort-of. in the way people who are

hurting  hurting  hurting do

when it is expected of them. 

(you would tell me, “you can see the sadness in their eyes, 

Bernadette. just look”)

but you are looking up, in the glow of a soft light

coming from the painted ceiling of an art museum.

probably the first and last one 

Phillip will ever go to;  he never did like art.

but you are looking up with a face of wonder–

with eyes on imagery or light or your future,

with Phillip and I on either side of you.

our hands grip the backrest of your chair.

and you are in the middle of it all.

the middle of it all.

-cornerstone