imageShe Loves You, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah
Rochelle Nameroff

This is a joke, a scream, this
orderly picture of life.
So I look at LIFE. I open
to a teenager in a photo
who weeps over a handful of sod,
says the mag, trod on by Ringo.
This is a joke, a genuine relic,
a memory for her mouth to hold
wide open, for the tears to fall

on her cheeks like the pearls
on thrift-store sweaters.
It's a cheap memory I know,
bought by everyone and discounted.
Thought of as easy. You must
remember this, etcetera. And yet
I look at her hand
held over a few threads of grass,
a little hand to make the photo

more precious, somehow silly
with those big clumps of sticks
peeking through the tiny fist of fingers.
And I believe in those fingers,
in the few threads of grass
and the holding on.
I believe in the one continuous tear.
And even if I mistake the past
I believe in the love.