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.