I hesitated

before untying the bow

that bound this book together.

A black book:

ALBUMS

CA. AGRIPPA

Order Extra Leaves

By Letter and Name

A Kodak album of time-burned

black construction paper

The string he tied

Has been unravelled by years

and the dry weather of trunks

Like a lady's shoestring from the First World War

Its metal ferrules eaten by oxygen

Until they resemble cigarette-ash

Inside the cover he inscribed something in soft graphite

Now lost

Then his name

W.F. Gibson Jr.

and something, comma,

1924

Then he glued his Kodak prints down

And wrote under them

In chalk-like white pencil:

"Papa's saw mill, Aug. 1919."

A flat-roofed shack

Against a mountain ridge

In the foreground are tumbled boards and offcuts

He must have smelled the pitch, In August

The sweet hot reek

Of the electric saw

Biting into decades

Next the spaniel Moko

"Moko 1919"

Poses on small bench or table

Before a backyard tree

His coat is lustrous

The grass needs cutting

Beyond the tree,

In eerie Kodak clarity,

Are the summer backstairs of Wheeling,

West Virginia

Someone's left a wooden stepladder out

"Aunt Fran and [obscured]"

Although he isn't, this gent

He has a "G" belt-buckle

A lapel-device of Masonic origin

A patent propelling-pencil

A fountain-pen

And the flowers they pose behind so solidly

Are rooted in an upright length of whitewashed

concrete sewer-pipe.

Daddy had a horse named Dixie

"Ford on Dixie 1917"

A saddle-blanket marked with a single star

Corduroy jodpurs

A western saddle

And a cloth cap

Proud and happy

As any boy could be

"Arthur and Ford fishing 1919"

Shot by an adult

(Witness the steady hand

that captures the wildflowers

the shadows on their broad straw hats

reflections of a split-rail fence)

standing opposite them,

on the far side of the pond,

amid the snake-doctors and the mud,

Kodak in hand,

Ford Sr.?

And "Moma July, 1919"

strolls beside the pond,

in white big city shoes,

Purse tucked behind her,

While either Ford or Arthur, still straw-hatted,

approaches a canvas-topped touring car.

"Moma and Mrs. Graham at fish hatchery 1919"

Moma and Mrs. G. sit atop a graceful concrete

arch.

"Arthur on Dixie", likewise 1919,

rather ill at ease.

On the roof behind the barn, behind him,

can be made out this cryptic mark:

H.V.J.M.[?]

"Papa's Mill 1919", my grandfather most regal amid a wrack of

cut lumber,

might as easily be the record

of some later demolition, and

His cotton sleeves are rolled

to but not past the elbow,

striped, with a white neckband

for the attachment of a collar.

Behind him stands a cone of sawdust some thirty feet in height.

(How that feels to tumble down,

or smells when it is wet)

II.

The mechanism: stamped black tin,

Leatherette over cardboard, bits of boxwood,

A lens

The shutter falls

Forever

Dividing that from this.

Now in high-ceiling bedrooms,

unoccupied, unvisited,

in the bottom drawers of veneered bureaus

in cool chemical darkness curl commemorative

montages of the country's World War dead,

just as I myself discovered

one other summer in an attic trunk,

and beneath that every boy's best treasure

of tarnished actual ammunition

real little bits of war

but also

the mechanism

itself.

The blued finish of firearms

is a process, controlled, derived from common

rust, but there

under so rare and uncommon a patina

that many years untouched

until I took it up

and turning, entranced, down the unpainted

stair,

to the hallway where I swear

I never heard the first shot.

The copper-jacketed slug recovered

from the bathroom's cardboard cylinder of

Morton's Salt

was undeformed

save for the faint bright marks of lands

and grooves

so hot, stilled energy,

it blistered my hand.

The gun lay on the dusty carpet.

Returning in utter awe I took it so carefully up

That the second shot, equally unintended,

notched the hardwood bannister and brought

a strange bright smell of ancient sap to life

in a beam of dusty sunlight.

Absolutely alone

in awareness of the mechanism.

Like the first time you put your mouth

on a woman.

III.

"Ice Gorge at Wheeling

1917"

Iron bridge in the distance,

Beyond it a city.

Hotels where pimps went about their business

on the sidewalks of a lost world.

But the foreground is in focus,

this corner of carpenter's Gothic,

these backyards running down to the freeze.

"Steamboat on Ohio River",

its smoke foul and dark,

its year unknown,

beyond it the far bank

overgrown with factories.

"Our Wytheville

House Sept. 1921"

They have moved down from Wheeling and my father wears his

city clothes. Main Street is unpaved and an electric streetlamp is

slung high in the frame, centered above the tracked dust on a

slack wire, suggesting the way it might pitch in a strong wind,

the shadows that might throw.

The house is heavy, unattractive, sheathed in stucco, not native

to the region. My grandfather, who sold supplies to contractors,

was prone to modern materials, which he used with

wholesaler's enthusiasm. In 1921 he replaced the section of brick

sidewalk in front of his house with the broad smooth slab of poured

concrete, signing this improvement with a flourish, "W.F.

Gibson 1921". He believed in concrete and plywood

particularly. Seventy years later his signature remains, the slab

floating perfectly level and charmless between mossy stretches of

sweet uneven brick that knew the iron shoes of Yankee horses.

"Mama Jan. 1922" has come out to sweep the concrete with a

broom. Her boots are fastened with buttons requiring a special instrument.

Ice gorge again, the Ohio, 1917. The mechanism closes. A

torn clipping offers a 1957 DeSOTO FIREDOME, 4-door Sedan,

torqueflite radio, heater and power steering and brakes, new