I am the Archivist of Photographs

Hello. Mom, platinum

blond, seductive,

in your negligee.

Dad, in your plaid

shirt and dapper slacks,

with flannel arm draped over,

young Edward’s shoulder.

A mini you, in cuffed jeans,

He is a mini James Dean.

Now he thinks he looks like a dork.

I am the archivist of that.

I have you on my shelves,

My baby sister,

in her blue hooded jacket

Sitting with Fritzy,

on Grandma’s porch.

Her eyes are sad

as if she know her fate

and has willed it.

I am the archivist of this.

I have had you all restored,

Polaroids are now forgiving

black and white, in silver frames

and into family albums.

We all look clean and happy

and handsome. That’s a fiction.

I am the archivist of that.

I am all that is left

to write the history,

And that will be that.

Cheryl Amy Hollander


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