14: Oct 2016 #17 - Developing Photos
Authored by Suzanne Highland
Abigail at the architectural salvage Behind my sister, propped up, is a pair of five-foot gold-painted wings, discarded (and from where?) against an armoire also for sale. A water drop on the lens or something: her features tremble into a continuous, headshaking no. We’re always against something, she and I, made shaped by what we are not. No, she’s not a handmaid, not the biblical wife of one of God’s men, armed with peacemaking bread, frightened, in love; yes, we are; no, not even in love should any woman turn to smudge. When you said you wanted to crawl into my mouth and be me, I thought: a lost form seeking itself out. My sister used to steal my shirts and dresses. God’s Abigail told the man she loved that God would make him a lasting dynasty if he avoided unnecessary bloodshed and he married her. What is unnecessary anyway. Photo you took After sex, maybe, your hand a star on my back, constellations you made from a pen and freckles. God— how could I not fall for that cosmic shit, those goose bumps? Look at what we turn into. And this one: your new lover’s back and a dollar bill on it. Both of us pale against you at different times. It’s about the polarization, how what I miss comes back as its opposite. How I don’t have time to miss it properly first. Saying this is who I loved and what we looked like against each other. I, without, submerge myself in red dark room light and come up a different shade of red. If I can’t be Aphrodite I’ll be Venus. If I can’t be free I’ll be the darkest room. My attempts to hold all of it.