The Last Photograph Of My Father Poem by Rasma Haidri

My daughter is in his lap like flowers,
like the bouquet delivered to the door
three days later. But that is not the miracle.
The miracle is my mother appearing uninvited,
walking across the room to stand behind his chair,
though no one asked her to do this, not because
she did not belong, but my mother refuses to be
photographed, turns her head, covers her face, scowls.
Even a wedding portrait shows her waving
an angry arm at the photographer. In a teenage photo,
she tries to pummel her brother with the camera,
so no one asks my mother to be in pictures.
She got up unbidden, crossed the room
to position herself in the center, behind him,
and though unpracticed, she smiled
as if she knew she belonged,
as if she heard his heart
counting down.


(first published in Fish Stories IV, WorkShirts Writing Center,1998)