There is a quality to light
beyond the too-objective lens.
It shifts, softens against the white
of the photo’s walls.
Save a chair, the room
is empty, even of dust.
The picture is small, little
detail, but the chair
would seem to be black walnut,
colonial, with fine classical curves
shaped centuries ago by someone
whose life was the fashion of chairs.
The curve of the seat moves up
into the curve of white thigh, arm
clasped around. The light plays
over the hollow of finger, knee, and glints
off ragged hair, as unruly
as the gaze beneath it, and as far away.
Looking for more poetry? Find many other pieces at the MockingOwl Roost!
- Soul Mates
- The Way Cats Wake Up to a Passion of Birds – Poetry Reading
- Buried Treasure
- How to Enjoy Watercolor
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Monterey Poetry Review, Creatrix, and Redheaded Stepchild, among others.
Find more on Robert’s website.