It began with the first baby, the house br disappearing threshold by threshold, rooms br br milky above the floor only her heel, br the ball of her foot perceived. The one thing real br br was the crying; it had a low ceiling br she ducked beneath—but unscalable walls. br br Then she found with the second child br a safer room in the camera obscura, handheld, br br her eye to them a petaled aperture, br her voice inside the darkcloth muffled br br as when they first learned it. Here, too, she steadied, br stilled them in black and white, grayscaled the beestung br br eye, the urine-wet bedsheet, vomit, pox, br pout, fever, measles, stitches fresh-black, br br bloody nose—the expected shared mishap br and redundant disease. In the evenings br br while they slept, she developed the day's film br or printed in the quiet darkroom, their images br br under the enlarger, awash in the stopbath, br or hanging from the line to dry. Sometimes br br she manipulated their nakedness, blonde hair br and bodies dodged whiter in a mountain stream br br she burned dark, thick as crude oil or tar. The children's br expressions fixed in remedial reversals, br br she sleeved and catalogued them, her desire, br after all, not so different from any other mother's.