I’m grateful to the camera for reaching out
sixty years ago and putting a stop
to time, if only for 1/125th of a second,
so that my father and I can sit a little longer
in the nifty white convertible he’s just bought
and driven home to take me for a spin.

 

I’m five years old, and taking in
what the camera can’t: perfume 

of seat leather, my dad’s Chesterfield, 
and the lilt of Vitalis in the air 
as he slips the little beauty into first, 
eases out the clutch, and heads off 
to be dead inside a year, his liver
finally throwing in the towel.

 

We smile as the shutter clicks,
giving the film its sweet slice of light,
and my mother waves and goes back into the dark
part of life that doesn’t get its picture taken.

 

—from Blood Pages