This picture-
With rounded edges and a tear in the lower corner.
I’m examining.
Viewing its movement as it rips through my body; a map missing the north arrow
Mostly, we are two redheads with matching canary coats
We are lit candlesticks in the middle of a winter night
Orbiting around something that I can only see now
Imprisoned by the film,
Light leaks in. Amber; or perhaps the last leaf suspended by gravity
Making its grand entrance, sashaying in, only for a brief moment
Military gold buttons, scarf that she wore only once
He took this photo of two friends while walking backwards.
My smile distracts.
But inside there are tears-
Pearls hidden away in an oyster
Eventually he broke me open with a rock
And everything came spilling out
Pieces of shell left to glitter on the concrete
Becoming a galaxy now, with no home for the spirit to return to
I still can’t figure out why,
But this photograph sends lightning into dark rooms
Sparks to remind me-
Of the night he was leaving, packing things up
And softly crying.
And even though the skeleton is buried in the backyard
In a box under trampled soil and a small tree,
Bones resurface when I see this photograph
And beg for my hand,
Until I am a kite,
Tossed by the wind and then tangled waiting for the black widow
With her silk cocoon and poison fang
April 19, 2009
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1 comment:
Hey Beckster,
I dig this. Walter Benjamin's says photography contains "the tiny spark of contingency, the here and now, with which reality has struck" I just think it's beautiful! With Love, Chris
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