After my father died, there was no one
to take my picture. My mother gave the family
camera, its springs and levers too baffling,
to Good Will. My hair tumbled
past her edict to keep it neat and trim,
into the hands of girls who wanted to feel
blonde. Nobody stepped up
to snap candids that cigarette-hazed year
there was no yearbook, no record
of the elbows and spit. I wanted to see
more than my body widening
around a core of grief. I filled the instant
photo booth at Woolworth’s with quarters
to capture what I was
becoming, balanced on a swivel
stool against the Formica wall,
stunned by the sudden strobe,
eyes glinting like stones.

- Published in the Anthology of New England Writers , 2002

Clara Silverstein has published poems in literary journals including the Comstock Review, the Hiram Poetry Review, and Blackbird on-line literary journal. Her memoir, "White Girl: A Story of School Desegregation" will be published by University of Georgia Press in September, 2004. She also writes for the Boston Herald and is the Program Director of the Writers' Center at Chautauqua (N.Y.)