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It’s a collection now. Three shelves worth.
I remember most of them when they were alive.
My Father resurrecting them from the closet, bringing them back to life
To trap jeweled moments in their black prisons.
Where did he keep the power he had over them?
The eye he closed while the other was pressed against the viewfinder?
Maybe his cigar, dangling at his lips, a bellows
Blowing the smoke of his soul into the magic boxes.
My favorites are the ones we shared. When he got a new Nikon
I would get the old one. There are three of them.
The trinity of holy vision, his, then mine.
On three shelves in Black Magic Boxes.
Spring 2009 Poetry:
RAPPERS AND THEIR GAME by Michael Cromwell
EDITOR'S CHOICE: Three poems by Robert Flanagan
OCCUPATION by Elizabeth Pavlov
ONE BLUE SHOE by Barbara De Franceshi
THE FUNERAL DIRECTOR by Jennifer Juneau
CASH CROP CONCRETE HOLLOW by Dave Migman
THE SWIMMERS by Oskar Hansen
MAUDLIN MOMENTS by Judson Hamilton
HORNETS by Christie Isler
BLACK MAGIC BOXES by John Tortora
