water’s edge
in a drab woolen coat.
He’s tossing bits of bread into the sea.
I lift my camera and zoom in,
waiting for the world to go silent.
As I hold the camera steady,
I’m moved by his desire to feed the fish.
Suddenly, gulls swoop down
snatching fish and bread
with sharp, angry beaks.
More join in—swooping,
snatching, screeching.
Is the old man here
to feed the fish,
or set a trap for them?
The ferry horn blows
and the man walks away.
His bag of bread empty,
my camera full of unused film.
Viewfinder
As the man disappears from view,
I think of the portraits I’ve taken—
the ones Mrs. Pratt calls
my “best work.”
Who’s to say the woman
mowing her lawn
is longing to be somewhere else?
Maybe the boy’s joyful look
has nothing to do
with old wooden horses.
I control the exposure
with my f-stop
and my light meter
and my shutter speed.
I wait for the moment
when things are as I want them to be.
Then I click and think
that says it all.
But it says nothing.
And instead of “Preparing My Shot,”
all I can think of now is:
“Photography Means Shit.”
Aftershock
I’ve lost
my best friend
my boyfriend
and my PMS mood.
All I have left
are my parents
on a live wire,
my brother
close to the third rail,
and my need
to connect to something.
Flash
I grab the shoulder strap of my camera,
rush toward the beach,
and swing the stupid useless thing
again and again
against a rough wooden pylon.
“Hey! Hey there! No, Lizzie! No!”
My father—
my so-slow-lately, so-careful father—
runs like a madman down the ramp,
grabs from my trembling hands
what’s left of my once favorite thing.
“He did it, Daddy. I think he did it.”
My hearts stops.
I feel it seize and stop.
I didn’t mean to say those words.
What have I just done?
WhathaveIjustdone???
My father turns the camera over
in his big, soft hands,
takes in the shattered lens,
the cracked shutter.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m so sorry!”
I’m crying so hard my head throbs.
He lays the camera on the ground
and pulls me into his arms.
“You, Lizzie, have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Yes, I do, Daddy!
I’ve screwed up everything!”
“So you’re not perfect, Lizzie.
No one is.
But you’re not
not perfect
because of Mike.”
I look up and see Randall
coming toward us.
He takes a few steps. Stops.
Takes a few more.
“Um, Liz? Is everything all right?”
“She’s okay,” my father tells him,
and I’m not sure I am,
but the words he said to me wrap
like an Ace bandage
around my heart.
Images
I’m in the courtroom
seated with my parents
behind my brother’s table
as the judge instructs the jury.
Every moment
of the past six months
has led to this.
The lawyers have finished closing statements
(Kate’s a slut. Mike’s evil.),
both creating images to show someone
the way they want them to be seen.
I used to be so confident
about who people were, who I was—
that woman’s a gossip, that guy’s a prick,
I’m a girl with a camera and something to say.
But, while listening to the lawyers plead their case, I realized
I no longer see things
in crisp black-and-white contrasts—
some things come in shades of gray,
hues that give pause and make me wonder,
make me want to know more.
And I think about what Javier said,
how you can’t sum up a whole life in a 5×7.
And now I get it.
But I wonder if maybe there’s still room
for catching magic in a moment
where a woman seems wistful,
or a boy, excited.
Where a girl,
as she dances,
looks lighter than air.
Verdict
The forewoman stands,
looks down at the paper,
looks up at the judge,
and says in a voice that does not waver,
“We the jury
find the defendant,
Michael James Grayson,
not guilty.”
Mom and Dad jump up, crying, and lean
over the banister, clutching my brother,
who lets out an audible sigh of relief.
Mom’s saying, “Yes! Yes!”
like she’s just won
a million dollars on a game show.
But I feel like a buzzer should sound
instead of a bell.
I
in a drab woolen coat.
He’s tossing bits of bread into the sea.
I lift my camera and zoom in,
waiting for the world to go silent.
As I hold the camera steady,
I’m moved by his desire to feed the fish.
Suddenly, gulls swoop down
snatching fish and bread
with sharp, angry beaks.
More join in—swooping,
snatching, screeching.
Is the old man here
to feed the fish,
or set a trap for them?
The ferry horn blows
and the man walks away.
His bag of bread empty,
my camera full of unused film.
Viewfinder
As the man disappears from view,
I think of the portraits I’ve taken—
the ones Mrs. Pratt calls
my “best work.”
Who’s to say the woman
mowing her lawn
is longing to be somewhere else?
Maybe the boy’s joyful look
has nothing to do
with old wooden horses.
I control the exposure
with my f-stop
and my light meter
and my shutter speed.
I wait for the moment
when things are as I want them to be.
Then I click and think
that says it all.
But it says nothing.
And instead of “Preparing My Shot,”
all I can think of now is:
“Photography Means Shit.”
Aftershock
I’ve lost
my best friend
my boyfriend
and my PMS mood.
All I have left
are my parents
on a live wire,
my brother
close to the third rail,
and my need
to connect to something.
Flash
I grab the shoulder strap of my camera,
rush toward the beach,
and swing the stupid useless thing
again and again
against a rough wooden pylon.
“Hey! Hey there! No, Lizzie! No!”
My father—
my so-slow-lately, so-careful father—
runs like a madman down the ramp,
grabs from my trembling hands
what’s left of my once favorite thing.
“He did it, Daddy. I think he did it.”
My hearts stops.
I feel it seize and stop.
I didn’t mean to say those words.
What have I just done?
WhathaveIjustdone???
My father turns the camera over
in his big, soft hands,
takes in the shattered lens,
the cracked shutter.
“I’m sorry, Daddy. I’m so sorry!”
I’m crying so hard my head throbs.
He lays the camera on the ground
and pulls me into his arms.
“You, Lizzie, have nothing to be sorry for.”
“Yes, I do, Daddy!
I’ve screwed up everything!”
“So you’re not perfect, Lizzie.
No one is.
But you’re not
not perfect
because of Mike.”
I look up and see Randall
coming toward us.
He takes a few steps. Stops.
Takes a few more.
“Um, Liz? Is everything all right?”
“She’s okay,” my father tells him,
and I’m not sure I am,
but the words he said to me wrap
like an Ace bandage
around my heart.
Images
I’m in the courtroom
seated with my parents
behind my brother’s table
as the judge instructs the jury.
Every moment
of the past six months
has led to this.
The lawyers have finished closing statements
(Kate’s a slut. Mike’s evil.),
both creating images to show someone
the way they want them to be seen.
I used to be so confident
about who people were, who I was—
that woman’s a gossip, that guy’s a prick,
I’m a girl with a camera and something to say.
But, while listening to the lawyers plead their case, I realized
I no longer see things
in crisp black-and-white contrasts—
some things come in shades of gray,
hues that give pause and make me wonder,
make me want to know more.
And I think about what Javier said,
how you can’t sum up a whole life in a 5×7.
And now I get it.
But I wonder if maybe there’s still room
for catching magic in a moment
where a woman seems wistful,
or a boy, excited.
Where a girl,
as she dances,
looks lighter than air.
Verdict
The forewoman stands,
looks down at the paper,
looks up at the judge,
and says in a voice that does not waver,
“We the jury
find the defendant,
Michael James Grayson,
not guilty.”
Mom and Dad jump up, crying, and lean
over the banister, clutching my brother,
who lets out an audible sigh of relief.
Mom’s saying, “Yes! Yes!”
like she’s just won
a million dollars on a game show.
But I feel like a buzzer should sound
instead of a bell.
I
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