Doctored

a pretty picture:
but who sunbathes
on a stony beach
on Long Island
in February

Advertisement

Peace and Quiet

I hide my photos
in-between volumes
of “Shakespeare.”

From pages of prose
I unearth memories
at a leisurely pace.

Against the leather spine
my nails tap a warning:

Shh!

A library is meant for quiet.

Capturing Crocuses

Crocus in focus
On a bright balmy day
Heralding the spring
And directing birds to lay.

Little Photographer

My son Josh loves to follow me around the studio, helping me rearrange drapery and backdrops from the bucolic to the sinister. When he was born, I gave up a government clerkship to spend more time with him, using my savings to open up a photography store where I charge $50 for a single portraiture.

Josh can be a handful when he’s not busy – sitting still to him is about as lonesome and as boring as banishing him to the ends of the earth. I always need to invent new toys for him; the ones I buy, like Fisher Price, never last as long and they make a large dent in my wallet.

One particular morning, he’s being extremely difficult while I’m trying to pose a new mother and her wailing infant for a picture. He tugs at my shirt, staring wide-eyed at the crying baby.

“Let me help mom,” he says.

A migraine begins to gather between my brows and I can already feel a faint throbbing when I grab an old camera that I had been meaning to get fixed, but never did. I press it into his hands.

“You can be my number two.” I try to smile, feeling half-wilted. “Get ready to help me shoot.”

He shuffles off, intent with his new plaything and I think no more of it until the baby abruptly stops howling and gurgles. I rattle a few props to try to get her attention, but her gaze wanders behind my right shoulder. I turn around and there is Josh, photographing the toy horse I gave to him for his last birthday.

He smiles sheepishly.

I gesture him to move his horse and camera closer to my side. Whooping, Josh gallops towards me on his steed, the camera’s strap waving in one hand like a lasso.

The baby laughs brightly and I have the perfect photo.

In Memory

Postage-sized photographs
Litter the attic landing
In windfall, like leaves from
Autumns past.

My grandmother must have
Lingered fingers reverently
On ghost-pale faces —
Dear aunts and uncles.

In recollection of a memory
I cherish strangers;
One day, she shall enshrine
The memory of my daughter of me.