Hershman John


A Sheep Dog Locked in Photograph

All the old photographs, hidden like buried
Treasure. Broken prayer sticks under my dreams

And my worn mattress. Each one like a postcard sent back
Home; wonders only seen in slick travel magazines.

Boxed up under my bed, colored souls on Kodak paper —
I can still see Grandma’ s smile next to her resting sheep dog.

Like a blue lightning strike over the northern sky,
Over two black houses, I pull the first leaf out, at random.