is because they are beside other pictures (not grandmother’s wool coat or the mother of the bride in the backyard after the rum-in-the-punch scandal), the words came from across the street, down the street, next door, a storm-surge wave swamping the block (you need space between the page and your body), I’m fat, Maya says and refuses to come down for dinner (even a dry brush will write if you move slowly enough), Grandfather asks, Why does she think that? Did you tell her that? the bridge, the levee, the ink in the brush (I did not).
Judy Halebsky is the author of three poetry collections, most recently Spring and a Thousand Years (Unabridged). Her honors include fellowships from MacDowell, Millay, and the Vermont Studio Center, as well as a Graves Award for Outstanding Teaching in the Humanities. She directs the M.F.A. in creative writing program at Dominican University of California, and lives in Oakland.
Image: Found photos, Gramercy Park, NYC, c. 1998
Pine Hills Review 