Frances Sharples

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.