The Photographer’s Daughter

by Brittany Livingston

I spent those mornings perched
like a sparrow on a power-line,
toes clinging onto the fibers,
filaments, and feel of the faded
dark blue flatweave carpet.
One thrust and I'm propelled
into a world of white
mottled muslin and flashing
lights; startled, the sparrow
leaves the swaying line to return
home (and sitting, I pose
in stance that says “beauty
and grace”) but not before flying
into your window where
the neighborhood cat finds
her lying, wings in disarray,
on your tiled porch. Sit up
straight. Chin to the right.
3, 2, 1. Smile. Click.

Published in the 2009 issue of the Lee Review.