The Last Photograph
a golden shovel on the opening line of Gwendolyn Brooks’ “To Prisoners”
Together we watched TV, or you gazed idly while I
eyed you, waning, and reached for my phone to call
you back.
‘Smile,’ I said, positioning the camera for
the last time. Widowing, you turned slowly; you
struggled to smile, the lamplight a halo, cultivation
of a minor saint.
Still I took the photo, ignorant of
the effort. Only after your death did I sense the strength
summoned to lift your face, now evident in
the mirror. Blame this photo on the love or the
selfishness of daughters, before they meet the dark.
