For the photo, you take your still-life place,
cross-legged on the play-table, in a starched
pink peony dress, a straw basket in your lap.
Your sister’s bawling her head off, afraid
of the camera, the tripod, mothballed Mr. Otis,
who made house calls like a country doctor,
dragging along his black bag, his bent leg,
breathing his horehound breath.

Your mother keeps trying to get it right,
moves in and out of the frame, coaxing,
cajoling, recombing your sister’s damp hair.
Your father stands apart, considering
the painted trout that hangs above your head,
a single silver muscle arcing over the rainbow
water, how it is caught in a net of light,
how such a moment can hook you for life.

They are all dead, the photo lost, the trout
plunged into the icy stream. You keep reeling
it back, the sweet smell of cellophane grass
and chocolate eggs, the scratch of stiff petticoats,
the old photographer’s bobbing head: hold still,
smile, freeze. The flash and the blackness after.
No sound but your sister crying and crying,
the catch in her throat as she gasps for air.