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under the dark surge of a nightmare
she said, saying I grew up there
& was a very tall teenager
being drafted as a model
at the age of twelve
posing sometimes with men three times my age
— they were uncontroversial
i thought nothing of it
except i didn't know what to — feel
receiving a glove
or fading into a sweet man's arms —
learning eventually that i could take a photograph
myself
focusing on darkness, at first
then graduating to the dance
of light on shade, shoulder on curious hip
movement & melody
of the contraction of fluid muscles in time
even honoring my presence
by projecting a frieze
that was best seen from my, only my, perspective
the one i chose, perhaps
by chance, but reflecting my command
my artistry
— there is "the dance" & then there are the dances
i choose the latter, that i may
interrupt
stepping out of the frame of the photographer & into the frieze
integrate
though not to influence, to eclipse, as if
i'd ever want to
— i've had enough of being seen
& if not enough, found it boring — no
here i danced
but cut the sweep into moments, the light into sleeves
that embrace quick figures
that might never have been seen
or even happened
i would hardly have time to speculate — when
there, comes another!
out of darkness, a flame that is liquid on ash, a glowing
molten thing — i bruise the focus
i turn it into waves
or a head in the shape of a kidney bean
or a smear of legs that bleeds like spilled ink
(for disbelief
is one of the possibilities in the experience of beauty)
& standing there, not quite
transfixed — after all, i am working —
i am anticipating the love
that i have already forgotten
but that will arrive in the darkroom
— the pink camera tempered by the hinge of the body!
i played no part in it
but somehow, one finds the moment has returned — i am there
— For Miana Grafals and Boaz Barkan
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