Our chins on top of their heads,
Baring our teeth in smiles that hide snarls
As we line up like an execution
—Ready Aim Fire!—
Try not to flinch at the clicks
As eleven parents brush off eight siblings
On the blinding white slopes
To capture the moment they need
To keep pretending
We have it all.
Three brothers
Standing together,
Alone among friends
They allowed no photographic evidence
As they did the things required of them
To the enemies they were pointed at
—Ready Aim Fire!—
Try not to think about the girls
We could have spared
If stopping were an option
Or the fact that they won’t see
That behind the snow and the smiles and the friends and the girls
We have nothing.