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Theatre of War

Suzanne Edgar

Nov 01 2012

1 mins

The studio portrait of ’44

was in classic triangular form:

me the child, my mother, and sister, all in our Sunday best.

 

My mother wears pearls and a violet spray,

I lean in the crook of her neck, brush her cheek.

My sister, older, hardly touches although

 

the photographer did suggest

we should nestle in close:

he planned a “madonna with young” effect.

 

We look so soft and shining,

the perfect family left behind.

When it reached my father’s camp

 

in steepest dank New Guinea

he wrote straight back, unsatisfied.

“How about some leg? Never mind the kids.”

 

We sent him one my sister took:

the raven hair upswept and a skirt undone

to allow the barest glimpse of ankle, one calf.

 

 

 

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