Fujifilm 35 mm
There is nothing pretty left
to write because the photographs
we developed in Vermont
have not changed. The flowers
we kept on the windowsill
are mauve and jam
and amethyst. The dinner
we left out overnight
has flies. Your naked body
sinks into the couch
beside me. My hair clogs the drain.
A camera that lets me stay here forever: In the mattress on the floor.
In the brash
blankets and lacerations.
In the ash-filled canoe. In the pond
behind our house, where
we strip fast and clean. We
wade and remember when
we fucked in the river behind
your childhood home
post-foreclosure. We listen
and you know the sounds and smells—
toad spring chorus, eastern newt, loon,
garter snake. I lift to the sound
of your voice and it is murky,
deep and warm. I float into reeds.
Wind whistling through, sharpness, spring chorus,
southern bog lemmings. My breath
popped and leaking. Your feet damp
on the shore. Dragonfly. Deer tick.
Peregrine falcon, you find
the camera. Focused and kind.
My lungs filling. My sound
drowning. Your skinny fingers
push down. The only shot that came out blurred.
Frances Sharples is an English (literature) major in their last year at Geneseo. Frances is the editor-in-chief of The Lamron and Iris Magazine. They write a lot and talk even more. They also cry a lot at Marcel the Shell with Shoes On and love all of their friends.