Your body, a stooped critical question mark:

what is the meaning? You are looking

through thick plate glass

at me, at the children,

hoping the lens

will make us larger than we are,

so faraway and bright.

The children wave.

You see their moonlit faces;

blinking, you make them disappear

onto the screen:

you are trying so hard to love!

Now you’re the projectionist as well.

I’m standing in a field of daisies,

skirt blowing, shading my eyes

from your penetrating glare.

I hold our children’s hands:

the movie slows

and in a burst of flower-like flecks

the film goes dark. Your view of us,

your brain, the flashbulb, blows.