The dust rose like a bad smell,
getting onto my hands, into my hair,
all over myself. The edges of photographs
crumbled as I touched them. My hands seemed
to hold such power: I chose to look at him,
put her down without even asking names, pick
up this group, ask questions.
Whole lives
are summed up in “He died before he was thirty–
that happened then”
as if we spoke of a hundred
thousand years ago, when animals roamed untamed,
instead of eighty years ago.
Houses still stand where these people were born.
Only one face, a young woman’s, stares back at me
as if I’m making trouble.
She is surrounded by infants;
they grow like mushrooms all around her.
Not one smiles. Dressed in white, this was an event
for them; what happened after the photographer
sent them all home? Did the children
tear off clean clothes to run and play
in alleys and backyards? Or was this a record
of a solemn event: the mother’s birthday, a
child’s First Communion?
To fit the camera’s frame they
huddle shoulder pressing against
shoulder. Only she is
taller,
sitting in the middle.
The small solemn children are old
or gone by now, what with the wars
and everyday dying.
Then I reach for another photograph:
four young men at the
beach, all grins, arms akimbo,
skinny chests pushed out like
they were kings.
They look at a point slightly beyond the camera.
They don’t picture me.
