One corner chewed away by rain and me and shoestring grass clings to it like wind is for humans alone to harness for travel. Under air the hue of harvest I run my finger over the torn corner, memorize the man behind the camera. A woman in focus throws wheat. Hair in acoustic curls along the ridge of her chin. Green and alabaster water for eyesight. The lens, always clean, streams toward the spot he'd swallow petroleum for to find just once, if they'd happen to be drunk together, in wine soaked sheets on New Year's Eve with Christmas still crushing their radio to static, wine glasses broken in stars across the floor lit up like fireworks when ambulance lights fall through the blinds. Nothing important missing from the photo but her hands ripped away at the corner, floating around on their own. If you've ever seen a lampshade fill with light then you'd know he loves her and she'll flip the switch on and off until the bulb burns out. I fix my bite around teeth marks already denting the photograph. A perfect fit. The photographer's gall for bringing a camera. I push the polaroid into my tin of smokes. I'll keep it there until my next yard sale where it will end up in a box of souvenirs from Bermuda, renegade cutlery, and used postcards marked, Best Offer for Everything, and I'll say to any customer who browses her still life, She threw copper grains against autumn eyes swollen brown.
63 The Paris-American
Nick Aiezza received his MA from Manhattanville College where he served as Poetry Editor of Inkwell. Currently, he lives in the Finger Lakes region of New York state.
