And Isn’t It Always There

Wendy Drexler

Marble Light Room Curtain | Breehan James

in memory, or half-remembered—
was it once or maybe dozens of times—
a curtain drawn half-way back,
a wood-paneled wall with a print
of a low-slung sun or maybe a moon
like a ripe tomato, the water so white
the canoe is a grey ghost, and a table lamp,
the generosity of its pleated shade,
the Hunter-green base the shape
of an hourglass holding time at bay
in a motel room with my father
those inextinguishable Saturday nights
I spent with him because his new wife
didn’t want me at their house—oh, how
special I felt, just the two of us, a frosted
mug of root beer and a burger at the drive in,
before we’d check into the Dune Crest Motel,
or the Thunderbird on East Colfax.
I’d scoop matchbooks from a big glass
bowl on the front desk, then search our room
to see if anyone had left anything for me—
only a black bible in the nightstand drawer.
At bedtime, my father would swivel the cord
to snap the green drapes shut—their thick folds
almost too heavy for the rod to carry.
But now my father is telling me a story—
it’s the one about a stepdaughter
who is to become a princess.