Snapshots For My Family
I am all camera—I
have no knowledge of my inner workings.
Each contraction is a hanging,
like spools of film catching wrong.
The doctors decide to cut me open—
springing the fat roll of you out,
perfect canister of blood and organs.
Mine but not mine. The doctors slice a straight line,
finding a brand new flap, and out you snap,
all vowels, a screech of light.
I, camera, try to document with
my drug-addled, pain-addled mind,
saying, You must remember
all this as it happens. The drive
over for what was planned, the
induced labor that almost is
the death of you. On the way,
we listen to Django Reinhart,
we get soggy sandwiches.
Turkey and avocado on whole wheat.
My belly became telescopic with you,
reaching for the heavens,
or, more accurately, outwards in red lines
like the first camera. A bloated box
the size of god, surrounded by men in coats.
One man hangs on the edge of the aperture
like an inverse bat. Photograph of the First
Camera Being Built, the caption says.
O historic occasion! O unity of makers!
But then who or what took the photo? A time-traveler?
(When they took your first ultrasound, the doctor
saw cysts and untamed uterine growth, said conception
would be difficult, but I already had.)
Was it mirrors displayed elaborately that allowed
the camera to take a photo of itself?
(You are a miracle of light.) Or was the photo
a staged recreation? (I am trying to write the story of you.)
Now I know it was you, life pulled from a wound,
you, Sam, who saw me being made.
have no knowledge of my inner workings.
Each contraction is a hanging,
like spools of film catching wrong.
The doctors decide to cut me open—
springing the fat roll of you out,
perfect canister of blood and organs.
Mine but not mine. The doctors slice a straight line,
finding a brand new flap, and out you snap,
all vowels, a screech of light.
I, camera, try to document with
my drug-addled, pain-addled mind,
saying, You must remember
all this as it happens. The drive
over for what was planned, the
induced labor that almost is
the death of you. On the way,
we listen to Django Reinhart,
we get soggy sandwiches.
Turkey and avocado on whole wheat.
My belly became telescopic with you,
reaching for the heavens,
or, more accurately, outwards in red lines
like the first camera. A bloated box
the size of god, surrounded by men in coats.
One man hangs on the edge of the aperture
like an inverse bat. Photograph of the First
Camera Being Built, the caption says.
O historic occasion! O unity of makers!
But then who or what took the photo? A time-traveler?
(When they took your first ultrasound, the doctor
saw cysts and untamed uterine growth, said conception
would be difficult, but I already had.)
Was it mirrors displayed elaborately that allowed
the camera to take a photo of itself?
(You are a miracle of light.) Or was the photo
a staged recreation? (I am trying to write the story of you.)
Now I know it was you, life pulled from a wound,
you, Sam, who saw me being made.
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Nadia ArioliNadia Arioli is the co-founder and editor in chief of Thimble Literary Magazine. A four-time nominee for Best of the Net and Pushcart nominee, their recent publications include Penn Review, Hunger Mountain, Cider Press Review, Permafrost, Kissing Dynamite, Heavy Feather Review, and San Pedro River Review. They have chapbooks from Cringe-Worthy Poetry Collective, Dancing Girl Press, and Spartan, and a full-length from Luchador.
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