BLACK POLAROIDS

Through the screen door,

Mother shouted something

Her face obscured by wire

Guilt and nostalgia

Spoken through the warm air

Landing on the grass

That needed to be mowed

Not hearing her anymore

I’m checking the attic for keepsakes

Behind a box of yellow comics

And action figure parts

There is a stack of photographs

Held by a rubber band

That sticks to my fingers

Flipping through years

Of dust covered bad choices

Ropes, latex, pentagrams

It was the 1970s after all

Freedom to be sleazy

Before you were parents

Before things were normal

I carry the pictures to the backyard

Throw them onto the lawn

You want the lawn mowed

I’ll mow it

The photographs as fodder for the blades

Let the wind carry your secrets

Into the neighbor’s yard

I keep one corner of one picture

I’ll tape it to the wall above my desk

There’s a face I recognize

Scratched through years of whisky

And lawn mower blades

I used to call him uncle

Should I have called him dad?