The dead relatives
assess my ascent
and mammal snuffles
of dormant daughters,
beyond the stairs,
ease my father mind.
A Great Grandfather,
beard balanced on chest,
peers past a journal.
A dour dissenter denying
the man with the box.
His daughter, cold shouldering
stern sky and waves,
half smiles through years.
A sepia shade implying
her hair flows deep red.
Her husband, pen poised,
administers a glance
and channels commerce.
His beetle brow prefacing
my daughters’ tantrums.
Between the wall
of hard hung pasts
and slumbering futures,
I frame a moment
that is also true
and not the truth.