A heart can grow cold

I think that she can be
as great as a photographer
as Annie Leibovitz or
even Dianne Arbus. On
the telephone I can hear
the noncommittal drawl
in her voice. She does not
know who those famous
photographers are or what
role they play in history. She
cannot place their faces
in history the right side
up in the universe. I still
remember all of her adolescence.
I can even if I try hard
enough or rather imagine
that I can see her smile.
I can see her smile reaching
her coy brown eyes. Her
lashes and cheeks wet.
'No, I am not depressed',
she says. She tells me she
has made potato soup. Comfort
food. Soul food more of
a tea made out of vegetables
than a meaty broth. I remember
when you were all mute.
I remember all the details
of adolescent you but now
you've moved away from home.
Grown up you live by your
Own rules. You've travelled
the world from North America,
Thailand, India, the city of
Prague.