I Inherited No Photographs

Before my mother’s mother (beside her mother), 
my father’s mother in her casket. There are no men 
beyond my mother’s father or my father.

Perhaps this is why they loved their camera,
my young parents who photographed everything 
beyond my mother’s mother.

Beside my mother: her dog, red motor 
vehicles, a wooden spoon, an iron bell 
behind my mother’s father. Or my father

in front of a men’s room mirror.
In a wet suit. On a haybale. Before a flag. 
Besides my mother’s mother,

I’ve never seen old women young. Roosters 
and children in their arms. They stand 
behind my mother’s father. Or my father

narrows the aperture. Because of glamour 
shots, I can never tell where they were living
before my mother mothered me (beside her mother, 
beside my mother’s father) with and without my father.

Read more from Issue 23.1.