Whether she knows it or not,
the woman in the chair taunts him with her miniskirt.
The tanned flesh seizes his eyes.
His brain tumbles through downy hairs.
She awaits her flight.
Her legs cross and close and he changes chairs.
No scars or blemishes intrude.
Not even a vein curls beneath the tanned skin.
Her knees are smooth as sea stones.
Thighs shimmer when she moves, like her breasts.
The only creases are where they should be.
She twitches.
Will she cross them again?
Can he record a glance to play back?
Will her panties be lacy or red?
She catches him.
Eyes rolling, she shakes her head.
Slowly she uncrosses her perfect legs
and her skirt rises, a leaf across ice.
A slick flash of white vanishes like a strobe light,
but its ghost clings.
He fast-forwards through dreams of lips,
frizzy like steel wool, and warm parting skin.
She squeezes his eyes between her legs
and throws them back to him.
She boards the plane.
His flight is over.
"The heart
must be educated, just as the brain is. Study affection as a form of art."
-- The Marquise de Lambert (1647-1733)
I photographed her in the forest
At first there was not enough light --
so I shifted my position
and caught the flares from dying leaves.
I set the lens wide open.
There was no perspective.
Her background was a blur.
She sat on the hill.
Surrounded by moss, she became
elegant like an odalisque,
honest like the first gray hair,
bold and forward as flight.
I zoomed in, she claimed the pose.
When her hair moved,
October light seized it.
She consumed my chatter,
became a red song stuck in my ear.
In these weeks, the photograph has changed my room.
It has wiped out the white space
above my door, although few notice.
Shall I enlarge? Enhance the contrast?
Refocus and reshoot? Or get closer?
©Peter Bates
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