The aperture of her heart
was like a pinhole, and I liked to
stare without heat at her intent,
telegraphed to me since the
sun started its staring contest.
She begged me to dance one
harvest moon when my father
took my brothers hunting, and
they returned with a bag of blood,
hair and teeth stuck to their skin,
my mother making such a fuss
about the state of her just-cleaned floors.
I foraged in the absurdity of my room
for the camera, knowing she would
recognize her kin, plastic and metal
and a gaping lens to defeat the world.
She tried on one smile, then another,
and finally settled on from the Dark Ages.
Click went the shutter, and click went
her teeth, sending the insects into a
nighttime flurry even though the moon
still hid her scarred and loving face.
She blossomed then, turning this way
and that, centering herself in my eager eyes.
Robert Crisp currently hides out in Savannah, GA, where he teaches and keeps strange company. He writes poetry as often as he can. Learn more at www.writingforghosts.com.