In memory of my mother 
who is still alive, I snapshot 
her face from the side, the front,
the back of her head even, aiming 
at the shrieking grays edged out of
greased up parts, though she swats
me away. Her dimpled eyes and cheeks
kiss the shutter of the camera
uniting her framework piece by piece
like her own mother did, in her last days,
against a white board and a paint brush.
Her memory is still walking through
our home, on my arm where she pinched
me. I hear her in the clicks and flickers
of the camera, her rounded voice
pressing on, tapping my eardrums,
even when she no longer in the view.