Suppose I shoot you in the cereal aisle,
your couture sullied by the shellfire
of the camera flash. Or suppose I rob you
of sleep before the six o’clock light breaks into
your bedroom and assaults your graying
hair. Say that I erase all other goddesses
from my hard drive and worship my idle
dowager limping off to her Sunday
confessional. Say you have me take you
as you hunch before your husband’s grave.
Will you honor your photographer
who wrests your skin of its wrinkles
in the dark room? For I will remember
my Sabine woman through the keyhole
of my lens, and swear my love at the vanity
as you remove your false teeth. Let me lie
by your deathbed, careful to capture your
goods, your shudder, your oxygen tank in still life.
Joshua Garstka lives in Boston, and holds an MA in Publishing and Writing from Emerson College. His reviews have been published in Redivider and Open Letters Monthly.