Family Album
hard to tell in old photographs if the infant is really sleeping, when they are already in their little coffin beds it is clear that the tiny hands have been posed to lay as if clutching the stopped chest, the lids closed for good and caught
in the fading post-mortem daguerreotype made so the black dead heart that was a mother could carry it around, look death in the eye, place it back against her breast where she hides the first infant curls, clipped from the back of the too large head, in a small locket that presses cool against her skin like the icy cheek of her baby did then-the hair will outlast them both, it will stay as
light and soft as a newborn-she will take it out to caress it against her cheek, she will look at the photo of the dead baby in her arms and think again like
she thought the day she held the child up for the photograph: that this is just a dream needing to be woken up