Goat in the Corner

I snapped that moment, my vision 
extended through the camera lens,
my finger on the shutter, opening 
the diaphragm for the light needed 
to capture them.

He’s on one knee, his arms around 
a baby goat. Its white legs dangle, 
its ears flatten back. Our little daughter 
leans her weight into his side, her hand 
on the back of the kid’s neck.  
Her whole body sings with delight.

My past is printed on glossy paper. Flat, 
with only memory to inflate it. I reach in 
and feel the rub of her corduroy pants,
the slippery nylon puff on his down vest, 
how his mustache tickled my cheek.  
Her soft braids. The tug of the purple sweater 
when I pulled it over her hair. 

The head of the mother goat enters
the lower right corner. White, almost
faded now, frozen as she moved 
to free her baby. Stopped in the act

that goat and I, rendered impotent.  
Cancer, the camera, its shutter snapping 
closed, first on him, then on her.  
They’re pinned inside this frame.  
And we are fixed forever
staring in from the corner.