Look at the girl
at the edge of the picture
whose bluewhite fingers
shade her eyes.
Her dress drops limp
from her collarbones
in the still air
to the demo's floor.
When she tries
to scarper, the hem snags
on the frame’s edge;
always figured before
she can get gone.
And she can’t ever
make the words
she wants to
come out.
To be seen
or to be heard, noted
or passed by;
switches are clicking
all over.
whose bluewhite fingers
shade her eyes.
Her dress drops limp
from her collarbones
in the still air
to the demo's floor.
When she tries
to scarper, the hem snags
on the frame’s edge;
always figured before
she can get gone.
And she can’t ever
make the words
she wants to
come out.
To be seen
or to be heard, noted
or passed by;
switches are clicking
all over.
An enigmatic capture.
ReplyDelete(Makes us pine to see the photo.)
She was collateral damage; a compelling figure at the edge of an otherwise average picture. Drowned in the swim of zeros and ones.
ReplyDeleteShe's also in the place I often find myself at these events. Drawn by her allegiances but never quite at ease in this particular theatre, she edges her way out but finds herself caught. It isn't where she wants to be but she shows up nonetheless.
ReplyDeleteI go with a camera as a comfort blanket or the excuse for not quite being a proper party member.
Could it be there's a bit of her in you?
ReplyDeleteYou're right, TC.
ReplyDeleteI used to be ashamed of always being at the periphery, whether at the marches or other spheres of life. I've never been one for joining up, whatever the club has to offer.
That sense of shame is gone, I'm glad to say.