The camera is trained on the door, no one <br />in the frame, only the dog sleeping. And then <br />finally, I see this was to surprise you, <br />filming your arrival, the dog's delight. Only now, <br />six years distant, can this seem scripted, meant: <br />the long, blank minutes she waited, absent <br />but there — behind the lens — as though she directs <br />me to notice the motion of her chest <br />in the rise and fall of the frame, and hear <br /> <br />to understand the one cough, nothing, the clearing <br />of her throat. Then, at last, you come home <br />to look into the camera she holds, <br />and past her into me — invisible, unimagined <br />other who joins her in seeing through our <br />transience the lasting of desire.<br /><br />Claudia Emerson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/homecoming-32/
