my father's photographs

I am fascinated

by his photographs,

stuffed away in dusty drawers,

waiting for me to pick them up,

one by one.


It's my father,

the photographer,

who draws me there,

as I slip into my parents’ bedroom,

kneel down in prayer pose,

and open the bottom dresser drawer,

where I find myself,

cradled in my mother's arms.


She is smiling back at him

like she'll be there forever--

as though the photograph is enough

to keep them together.