A young woman sits on a beach,
her weight on her knees, legs
beneath and behind her,
hands at rest on her thighs.
She is at ease, smiling slightly,
hair wind-blown (the day
appears brisk, whitecaps combing
beneath a storm-thick sky).
She wears a too-large
and therefore charming workshirt
(over a bathing suit, one presumes),
its long sleeves rolled up,
its tails wagging, her expression
one of good-natured indulgence
of the photographer who has placed her
in this U.S. Camera pose.
She starred in plays in high school
and will soon be offered a screen test
by Universal, but by then
she will have married the photographer
and become pregnant and will say,
with the photographer’s complete endorsement,
that mothers don’t leave their children
to become movie actresses.
So she will perform instead in the kitchen,
before the washer, at little theaters,
will give readings to women’s clubs
and church groups. Local papers
will praise her, and old women
will call her dear and clap their bony hands.
But this will not suffice. And whether
the photographer regrets her decision,
I do not know. But I know I do,
and am sorry.