poetry

Photograph: Father and kids at home
ni Imelda Morales Aznar

There is no balance in composition: all three persons
are pushed to the left, and on the right
only the water meter, mailbox, and the number 17
in your delicate handwriting near the doorway.
My sister stands wearing a naughty grin

and a pendant of the crucified Christ over her shirt.
My year-old nephew is sitting in his carriage, buckled
at the waist. His tiny, white toes alert.
In the background, the steel gate
of your sister’s house looms gray.

Yet like a child you sit on your haunches,
both hands clutching the pram’s handle bars.
And your whole face smiles
like the world is yours.

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