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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. 

Author photo for Nadia Arioli

Nadia Arioli

Nadia 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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