James Allen Hall
June 2010

Family Portrait


When I say my mother, the thing inside me
that strips for you begins to writhe
under burlesque lighting, leaves a sweat outline in your sheets. 

When I say my father, the taunting auctioneer
comes forward and bows at the waist, smiling.
When I say my father, he hands me the camera,

he says Go ahead, big shot, take her picture. 
So I do, I maul her into memory.

When I say the end, no embrace, no vengeance
can bring her back. When I say I loved her,

I mean no story is true. 
Not even tenderness lasts. 



 

First appeared in The Boston Review, March/April 2007