famine portrait 

i get the elbow face together
of all the last genders i have.
culled for them in the dusty corners
of the living room. we all smile
the way that power drills smile.
smell of scuffed shoes
in the hallway of the church. 
it is canned family day. brine 
of our chins. my youngest brother
is cream cheese on a knife. he cries
& so all of us cry only for me
i do that with my lungs.
two aspergillums, dispensing holy 
summer rain on a vision of
my paper towel self. the background
is grey. the photographer chews
ugly bruise gum. i don't know
what we're trying to have. 
just like i'm not sure what
i'm trying to be. i wonder if i might
still breathe if i am the size
of an eyelash. if, when people blink
they only have a fifty-fifty shot
of whether or not they see me.
years later my mother will 
look at the portrait in the sunroom
& ask if i want another. if now
i don't see myself in those pictures
anymore. she will be talking about gender
but i will hear it as more. more like,
"were any of us there?"
we don't go to church anymore. we don't
sit for portraits. 
there is something terrifying
about any staged photo. the way
the truth cannot escape. 
no where to hide your teeth. 
shovels we each harbored under our tongues.
i always tell her i don't need
another picture. that that one held 
a fragment of our lives. my brother
weeping in the light. my collar bones
like a pair of sea gull wings.