photo-booth

teeth on face, oh walk me inside.
sink into cheek-- the chine
the images developing inside chest.

there was a photo-booth at the mall between 
the robotic ice cream truck & 
the row of gumball machines. 
a handful of banana planets &
blue-raspberry moon. 

she took my picture several times.
the first with my uncle,
it came complete with a selected frame.

a series of four photos,

the body moving,
the 3, 2, 1. 

alone sometimes i hear 
that counting down, the flash,
the blink. 

what photo-booth is this now?

possible a bed room
possibly a lens.

& where are they now?
all those old pictures,
the ones that instantly emerged
from the gullet of the machine.

i wonder if the photo-booth
makes herself two copies,

one for me, one for it,

late night when the mall 
is asleep, paging through all these
collected bodies, couples & 
class trips & teenagers

laughter & arms & flash--

an image of someone alone will 
makes the photo-booth
less lonely

an empty mother,
spitting still-born frames
out into the linoleum

near morning she'll 
pray for someone to come sit 
inside her-- 

the curtain, a tongue
snake-flickering & soft

the flavor
of sneakers & flip flops
is worth the warmth of 
each person's presence,

paging through their faces today
maybe she'll find mine

round as an Auntie Anne pretzel--
salt glinting in my teeth.
the soles of my shoes 
tasting like black licorice.

just me, alone spanned 
across four white-framed boxes, 
a smile surfacing
somewhere behind teeth.

the photo-booth tearing up,
pressing the memory to her chest
& trying to wait.