The Photographs Never Develop Like You Imagine

I’m a photographer , he said, I want you to pose for me .

A camera dangled from his neck instead of a whistle—

otherwise he was my dad’s stand-in, blue Oxford

tucked into khakis. He found me in the concession

line, five bucks sweating in my palm. My mother

was cheering on my twin brother’s soccer team;

my father was the coach, and the August heat played

goal against an unstoppable dark. He steered me

to the swings, pinching my arm, then to the playground

horses, their painted-on eyelashes batting. He posed me

how he wanted me seen. From the field I heard

my brother starting a fist-fight; when I turned

to look, the man shook my chin back into place.

Don’t move , his voice like cleats scraping knees.

He orbited me, excited electron, saliva foaming

at the corners of his mouth as he shot.…