stranger's photograph

i find her in a box of photographs that lies open on some stranger's table. she stands far in the background, turned away from the camera. the setting sun illuminates the profile i know so well.

in the foreground, an attractive couple stand with arms outstretched toward the camera. their fingers forever rest upon the button that will open, then close the shutter. i recognize them as the hosts, friends of friends of friends. they have welcomed me into their home though i do not entirely understand the cascade of relationships that connects me to them.

i hold the picture closer. they are underexposed. the automatic shutter setting has mistaken the sun as the subject of the shot. and beyond them the whirl of those wild strands of her hair dance on the evening's last light.

she's shifted her weight shifted to her right foot, as if she has turned away suddenly. as if we have just missed seeing one another.

i recognize this posture, the simple line of her neck as it slopes down toward her shoulder. she hides smiling lips against her hands, as if she holds some great secret there. as if, by knowing yet not acknowledging the camera which beholds her, this moment suspended in silver halide will forever be only for me.

this is, of course, untrue. it is a stranger's photograph found in a stranger's house. i do not know anyone in it.

tall grass

you walk through the field at dusk where the august heat still lingers in the dirt against bare feet. the tall grass whispers as you pass by, its tops dancing across down-turned palm.

you are not alone

you stand perfectly still, perfectly alert. a snake in the grass, overheard, recedes like a stranger's conversation until finally it fades—as do all summer's dreams.

summer rain

our love lasted exactly as long as that warm summer rain that began to fall at twilight. we ran, laughing, along the half-abandoned foot paths that meander aimlessly through the decommissioned navy base. we took shelter beneath an old pine tree whose needles beneath our feet made the entire earth smell new. we crouched there against its trunk, drinking whiskey from paper cups, wrapped in the sound of the rain all around.

i told you that i didn't understand how anyone fell in love anymore, that maybe love was an anachronism in the modern age. you laughed and asked if i really believed that. yes, i said, i do, though i knew i was lying before I'd even finished the words.

i kissed you then and you didn't point out the contradiction. i kissed you as drops of rain fell down through the branches, cold against our naked arms.

you asked me if i had a cigarette and i said no, i don't smoke. good, you said, i don't either.

i walked you home then, your hand in mine, and when we reached your front porch, we embraced. i watched you walk up the steps, unlock the door, and as i turned to go, i heard the turning of the latch.

the rain faltered, then stopped. and the world was silent, silent, silent.