catchlight
under the gervais st. bridge,
our voices domed like a cathedral.
shoulders dipped in sunlight,
a baptism of sorts.
we came to take pictures. searched
for subjects like graffiti on piers,
what my mother calls angel rays
in the sky, that yellowed, humid
glint in your eyes.
maybe i ran out of film or
my batteries died because when
we finally found our shot,
you used your iphone.
neither of us have a right to decide
what is holy. i told you
i was almost a catholic baby,
a half-lie i wanted to be true
if only because i knew you would
be disappointed.
there is no glory in either of our
doubts: your face when
i talked of prayer, how
walking across that bridge back to
your car, i remembered that
what gives a photo life
is artificial light.
Copyright Credit: NOTE: This poem is part of “Pethetic Little Thing,” curated by Tavi Gevinson. Read the rest of the portfolio in Poetry’s July/August 2015 issue.
Source: Poetry (July/August 2015)