after Masahisa Fukase’s Ravens, 1986

hold still, release.

a sixtieth of a second is all i’d need for the shutter to fall,
for your image to be held still & glorious in my unfed eyes.

but, as always, you’re startled by the shutter’s sound.
before i can apologize, you’ve taken flight,
scattering black tattered feathers into the empty sky.

should we try again? hold still, release—
‘i’m no hunter,’ i whisper, yet you’re flying like the hunted,
crying of triumph or terror,
diving from crowns of mountains
as if heaven-sent.

hold still, i say, as if it could ever be my place to tell you
when to stay and when to leave,
where to lay your head to rest,
which empty spaces to fill with your song.

finger on the film advance, i lie
in wait for you to turn around.
show me your face;
is it still the one i can trace with my finger
in the fogged-up bathroom mirror?

hold still—show me your hair;
have you dyed it brown yet,
or are silver strands of hair
on someone else’s crumpled bedsheets?

hold still—tilt your head;
have the bruises on your neck already faded?

hold still, release—hold
hands with me, and i’ll show you to the darkroom.
you know i can’t do much just watching you—but here,
i can make a runaway train into your statue,
a sudden rainstorm into your monument,
a sixtieth of a second into your lifetime.

hold still, just once,
and i’ll give you all the time you need to dry your hair.

hold still, release—once more, just

hold still—

stay where i can see you—

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