This photo does not shout, it gasps for air. I see his cloud of cigar smoke. I see your neckline. Wedding night; your husband kisses your neck, touches your feet in the light. You bathe late at night. My fingers leave a brief print just right of your ear. You don't mind. Your husband hides behind the camera, three sea gulls peck sand, my oldest brother sits in your belly. You move with Taj Mahal on the record, with waves in your ear. Do anything in the light -- he will take a picture of it. You are not my mother yet, you are a girl who bleaches facial hair. You still wear skirts, drive without shoes, smoke a cigarette with friends, ash the end with a knuckle flip.