The Photograph

New Delhi, 1958

Amolak Ram Mehta and

Shanti Devi are flanked by

Their daughters and

A daughter-in-law;

Behind them,

In dark suits that’ll

Never fade, the husbands

Stand shoulder to shoulder;

The grandchildren

Sit on the ground,

In front of their mothers.

At a distance of some ten feet,

Looking like a piece of ordnance,

Is the camera.

Mr. Mahatta, the photographer,

Lowers the black cloth and

Stepping forward, clicks.

Amolak Ram Mehta is dead,

So are the sons-in-law,

And his adoring children

Have carried the photograph

To Kalamazoo and Vancouver.

One’s remained in my mother’s room.

She’s had it for years

Above her bed

And never taken it down.

The spiders that live in it

Are of a golden colour.