My mother is wearing a hat
indoors, to shade her eyes
from dim lighting in the garage
or the flash –
her brother's camera
cheek and nose are lost in shadow.

My uncle is wearing a hat
beside her, because she is
wearing one, and older.
He is surprised
by the camera, head tilted
down, glancing upward.

I watch this photograph
in its frame. I walk
closer to the smell –
gasoline and Westchester
dirt. I warn them
about their father
in the next room.

One day, he will slice
through veins, family
blood. He will break
the daughter. Isolate
the sons.
I tell them to run.