-Portal-

                             1.
I’d vanish  

Beneath the sleight of my father’s hand.

Once there,
Once gone by its graceful mechanics where

Pictures in motion are woven by the clicking 

Gears of his magically whirling Bell & Howell.

Bathed in incandescent light, cousin Celia laughingly
Negotiates the slip of a deviled-egg
Between the unforgettable separation of her Revlon lips
And in the living room, sunk within the plush
Of the easiest chair, an ancient 

Uncle engages his Avanti,— the craggy, hemp- 

Like tobacco stick whose after-smoke saturates

The fabric of the house.

Drawing the requisite belly-laughs
From across the room’s 

Good-natured attendants, the baby’s complexion
Fades to grey as puffs of smoke from uncle’s
Deliberate mouth blanket its startled face.

There are no objections. 

There are no arrests.

This was simply the movement employed 

In everyday early childhood development.

First the smoke
Then the toilet.

Then asbestos.

                             2.

Aunt Shirley, pointing the way in sweltering
Angora pink makes the old men pant
And from the kitchen, Celia redefines

The aesthetic properties of the deviled-egg.

These are the people in motion,—
Their parts played-out

As if everything would last forever.

I was there

And I can still smell the smoke.

                                                                               

                                       Quequechan