photographs

i want to lay our family photographs
next to each other & let them talk,

the bodies crawling out of muddy 
film-born water. the mealy grain of 

the images is contagious & you
watch as my face changes texture.

my uncles in their cassocks standing
up & stretching, each about a foot tall,

pacing the table in the kitchen.
your mother with long hair again,

sitting on the edge of the table.
there i am, an eight year old 

in my puffy purple winter jacket,
i pluck you out of the frame, 

you're an infant, dazed & looking
up at the ceiling fan. i hold you

on my hip & tell you facts about 
dinosaurs. my father helplessly

cleaning a background counter top,
running the sink till the water 

in the photograph runs out.
your aunt smiling & making faces

at my little brother in his high chair.
the house on Franklin Street 

with its doors glued shut. 
your old porch & the moths uncanny absence.

all the while we stand at a distance,
watching. it's like seeing a train set

build itself. we're scared of them,
mostly because they each reminds us 

nothing of our families. these bodies
born only in snapshot spaces. 

i tell you again that i'm i don't 
miss my family, that i miss 

the idea of my family. i boil a pot 
of water on the stove, drop in pasta. 

you pick each person up by their 
shirt collar, dip them back into

the photographs, but, not before
holding me, eight year old me

for a second. you notice her
cluttered teeth, the screw driver 

in her back pocket. she grins, &
startled, you drop her. 

a splash. i pour the pasta 
out into the strainer. we eat

with the the photos all sprawled out.
the people sitting at the edges

to watch us. they make me feel like
we're the photographs,

i kiss you to make sure we're not.
that might not prove anything.