Filed in this black box of
smoky negatives, parents,
children, grandparents,
aunts and uncles all gussied
up for Easter, the worn
porch steps and sagging,
moldy gutters behind them.
And the toothy birthday girl,
the erstwhile boyfriends
in bow ties, the fresh shine
of a large-mouthed bass,
Christmas smiles set
glowing by bubble lights.

And I am the one to save
them.  A mere four dollars,
hundreds of lives at pennies
each.  I had in mind to print
some of them, and puzzle
over stories hiding beyond
the focal point. 

                             But I suspect
none will ever see the light
of the enlarger.  Or know
the magic rebirth of silver
halides turning photo paper
to highlights and shadows falling
across the face of a tall woman
squinting at her husband,
hunched staring into the tiny
viewfinder of the family
Brownie box camera.

It has fallen to me to let
these people go, to abandon
these indiscernible faces,
these mute conversations,
these stopped hearts hoarded
so carefully against the swollen
floods, the midnight winds,
the breathless fires and broken earth of the landfill.