(an early self-portrait with freckles)
I suppose I should begin by saying
I once made love to this woman,
Though the black and white image,
Faded a bit on the thick, warped paper,
Doesn't remember her body as my body
Remembers it. And, too, because
The camera was tilted slightly,
The angles of the room behind her—
That same bedroom, walled with books—
Fall strangely away, disturbing me.
She dons a white slip, paints her face
Even paler than usual, balances
The Nikon on the chair, and, crouching,
Brings the calculatedly disheveled
Empty bed almost into focus.
Then sets the timer and plunges
Into a grief that doesn't look feigned
Because it's not.—Just lying there,
Drawn so tightly into her own arms
As after making love which is not love.
The following works were selected from The Last Nostalgia...
The Ohio | Death in Orange County | Photograph: Being Sad | Your Shadow | To a Woman Passing By | Adult Situations | Tropical Courtyard | Page
For more info on Joe Bolton, visit: The Joe Bolton I knew | Remembering Joe Bolton