Camera in hand, I call out to them,
one by one, in twos and threes,
working up to the group shots,
the family portrait.
My nephews, scrubbed clean, dressed
in red, hug each other’s mirror image
and smile the same smile.
Head to head, their dark hair mingles
as the shutter clicks.
Now I sit the baby between them,
my niece who has my eyes, my nose,
a stranger’s wide mouth.
The flash going off in her face
makes her love the small black box
I hold, so much, she is willing to pose
forever, as if I held the force
of the sun, a gorgeous toy, and all
her days balanced in my hands.
Grandmother squeezes in, holds
her baby’s babies in her diminishing lap,
circles the shoulders of her son,
her daughters, my own shy daughter,
and pulls them into the frame,
the fine lines of noses and chins
a painter’s signature stroke.
I take picture after picture,
the windows going darker
with each bright flash, each face
held up to the repetition of light.
But when I look to see how many frames
are left, I find the tiny window
in the camera is empty, remember
the film left on my dresser
500 miles away. I smile at my family,
ask them to stay where they are
just a few minutes longer as I press
the blank shutter again
and again, burning their images into my own
incorruptible lens, picture
after perfect picture, saving them all
with my naked eye, my bare hands,
the purest light of my love.
