Polaroid
My father is in the right
corner with a corona
of boysenberry stems. I am
not taking the picture, instead
developing the hard
yellow sheer, the bristled lines
slow but determined in their swim
across his skin. On the back,
I have written passion in a green so near
black I feel sure it is from the underbelly
of the stream. There is no date,
but—if I tilt my head
and focus—I think he
could be right. I think
there could be a cat.