Instamatic photo—

of a stack of mixed media paper

corners fluttering

weighted with gelli print plates

pliable, playful

irresistible to small and large hands

a box of acrylic tubes, most hues

two brayers, pack of baby wipes

mineral oil, old catalogues

two heaps of fern and artemisia fronds

clover and rose leaves

waiting for the daughter, newly sonned

and mother, newly creped

to begin, to create

mother touched by daughter’s

candid shot, the mechanical click

and whirring unfurling

of the tongue of the machine

snatched and shook, placed

on a table to develop

anticipation of a moment seized

beautifully

days later

found facedown in the trash bin

by the mother

who put it in her journal beneath

this poem, finally aware

after a night of perimenopausal

moping, that photos are not

necessarily memories or validation

and the women’s printed

garden leaves and hands, layered

deeper images buried

though not memories either

will suffice to jog the mind

into sweet recall of the windy

day they made prints

an act of pre-Kodak archiving

and that the photo itself, a still life

deemed, for some reason

a poor work of art by the daughter—

is repurposed by the mother

as a guard against dementia

her own mother’s quiet new friend

who resends the same old photo

of the two of them

day after day by text