Photo Circa 1969
I have a photograph of me when I
Was ten. A blur between door frames
Holding a cat. I see mud splatters
So it must have rained.
I’m blurring and the cat is frantic.
He must have sensed the camera
And tried to hold me still. That cat
Could never understand when I was ten
And photographed that I was blurred.
Often people see this rush and say
Oh a kitty, or darling cat. I’m so far gone
In concrete steps they’re only sure of my
Bad eyes and point out that nearsighted children
Are often hard to see. I started sporting
Glasses next time I was photographed. Same cat
Dug into my knees. I blurred so bad
The lenses streaked odd little windows.
My aunts thought I was a real blind
Blur by age twelve and traveled down to see
For themselves. I remember glinting down those
Steps as someone’s shutter closed in reflex.
I think they were surprised and pretended
Not to notice until I unfocused against
Their textured kisses.
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John Duvall is a graduate of The University of Mississippi. He plies his trade and writes in and around Jackson, Mississippi.
