What I Sometimes Forget

             -For Anita Augesen

At ten, the summer trip to Michigan
and grandmother’s apartment complex,
too small for a whole family. I left.
I walked to the baseball field on my own.
I played catch with another kid. A man
arrived. I don’t remember much. We walked
across a river or stream, I can’t recall
well, but a bridge, then his apartment.
A small dark room with curtains, a glimmer
of light traced their fringe. There were sandwiches
and cameras. He showed us the magic
of taking off our clothes. I remember
the kid’s eyes—the glimmer of confusion
when I closed the doors and left on my own.


Tom Holmes