In the photo my mother wears
a Vandyke brown fox stole,
fastened by one long snout
biting the tail of the other,
nagging a constant circle,
doppelgangers chasing denouement.

Manicured fingers,
that favor Ritz crackers and roe,
curl around a beaded purse
I know contains a wad of tissue,
a wrinkle-less five dollar bill,
and a tube of siren-red lipstick
sardined inside a mirrored case.

My father, Brylcreemed, a little dab'll do ya hair,
face marble heavy, holds her arm,
the same grip used to steer her clear of the curb
after one of Uncle Harry's martinis,
the same grip used to pull her back in the car
when she tried to leave. Survivors of touch,
but not passion. Tristan and Isolde.

They face the camera, in front of their first home,
whose plaster facade barely conceals coiled wires
that sizzle and throb with high velocity
teeth tingling currents. Overloaded fuses
blow and lights pop like flashbulbs.