His grown son’s photographs rested in my view.

His name in sand appeared,

caused a thought, and it was seized

fast without considering, without propriety.

I looked and looked and stared.

Once it was told he carried 

the face of his father.

I peered hard at the page

gazing at the possibility

that I might catch his carbon copy countenance

to hold it in my heart again

renew an old and distant feeling

but what peered back was silence.

This was not my child, nor my soul.

He was hers.

It did not matter

as I peered further

into the eyes of his son’s son

again with wonder and expectation

extinguished.

Almost gone, like his smile upon my entrance,

the scratches in beach sand

spelling out his name

are frozen forever on film.

The ocean now can never wash away

every microscopic trace of him

and one could look as often as one wanted

to see that name,

recapture loving

a taste of salt hinting at what could have been.

In “Sand and photographs,” the poet employs wonderful verb choices (ie, “rested,” “seized,” and “frozen”) to establish a feeling of time suspended, a prolonged moment of introspection. The use of pronouns, rather than names, invites careful consideration for each mention of “his” and “he.” When the speaker says, “He was hers,” is this “he” the father or the son? Is she acknowledging a lost romance or lost possibility of family? By leaving these question unanswered, the author admirably illustrates the complexity of “what if…?”

In the last stanza, I found myself dwelling on the switch in perspective from the speaker’s first person “I” to the more distant third person “one” (“…one could look as often as one wanted…”). Why not “…I could look as often as I wanted…”? Or why not echo the tense of “The ocean now can never…” with “…I can look as often as I want…”? For me, the subtle shift in focus disrupted my rapport with the speaker. However, the connection was quickly re-established with the instantly recognizable “taste of salt.”

Taken line by line, there are places in every poem worthy of in-depth discussion. As an example, consider this line from the second stanza: “but what peered back was silence.” At least one alternate phrasing is immediately obvious, “but silence peered back.” I prefer the author’s choice, because I like how the line fades in sound with the soft syllables of “silence.” In a different poem, I might argue the opposite. What about other readers? Do they also prefer the author’s choice? And what about the first line of that stanza? What alternatives are available for “Once it was told he carried,” and how did the author decide?

I would like to thank Alice Shapiro and Annmarie Lockhart for inviting me to take part in this unique and fascinating process. I am in awe of Ms. Shapiro’s courage.