A woman shields her face from the lens,
anxiety written there and captured for us
to read in later years. The soul sucked out
like a squirming foetus and laid bare –
a theft.
This boy hides, grimacing, in the flash
wedding line-up, tongue stuck out, making
a rude gesture; he’s a back-turner, hand-
waver, blurred mover, escaping
discomfort
But this picture – my Mother in sweet repose –
has none of these. She looks directly at us,
not afraid, embarrassed, or hurried.
She tells us she loved us – loves us still.
a certainty.