darkroom

the camera wakes up
with fur & noise. goes to capture 
my bruised back. haven't you ever 
taken a shovel to the night sky
in search of the quiet you need?
you ask me, "why do you push me
away?" i get on a hot air balloon.
i fly to the arctic where the sky is tight
as a drum. there, my grandfather shivers
& dreams of his rain forest. 
colorful feather angels. an alien 
watching as humans work to built
a temple from dust. the alien flies away
& until he dies tells the story as,
"they were terrifying." i do not want
to be alone. i find myself in the black light
holding up images of our faces.
i cannot tell them apart. fun house teeth.
shut eyes. my father, face down
in developing solution. i lift him
& he is as light as a piece of paper.
printed across his face is my face.
i put the crime scene on a rocket ship.
"don't open the door," i plead.
"you have to let me see," you say
through the door. i am orpheus 
or eurydice. the sun has a knive 
in his pocket. he says, "there is no photograph."
i weep in reply, "but can't you hear them?"