|Apr/May 2015 Poetry|
Photograph by Rus Bowden
The eyes belong in the middle
of the face, never higher. No need to coerce
the proportions. Just capture the shapes
and shadows and the face
will emerge like magic.
He wraps his slender hand
around the back of his neck
and says, "This is not part
of the face. It's just muscle." His torso
spells a smooth V shoulders to hips.
A handout of thirteen views of a skull
makes it clear: what lies beneath the skin
can be tilted to any angle, altering everything
that can be seen, that can be rendered,
that can be remembered.