She falls in supplication. Arms forward over the ground. Disappearing beneath her gown. Like a magic trick minus a magician. She thinks no one is watching. An unseen offering, a mandala. When someone sees her he thinks of crows. An outward movement inward. On the photo her reflection in his eyes. She digs a hole with f(l)ailing hands. She claws at the dirt at painful angles. So that her fingernails will crack and her fingers maybe bleed a little. Then with the gentlest movement she knows she places a photo in the hole. Her hands pull back slowly so, so slowly, so, if there was anyone, (t)here, this person would not see them move. Would, would see them move, but hardly any. Hardly much at all. Her hands move back over her head, kung fu. Pushes dirt into hole, flattens mound, stamps hard, leaves site, does not return. Photo is never recovered, disintegrates. How long does it take for a photo to disintegrate/disappear?
There is a photo in her head. She loves people & there is always a photo in her head. Does she love them? Does she love them more or less? She tears skin off her breast. After many years there is a photo in her head but she can no longer remember the exact contours the precise details. It is there and vanishing. It is both there and waste. The figure on the photo has become blemished, her inability to retain perfect memory, abominable ethics of memory. The blemish is in her eye, determines everything she sees. People in front of her have started to look like the photo in her head. They are there and absolutely not there. They are there and their faces are scarred, a painter’s brush through a face. The humans she speaks to are no longer people they are figures. Maybe they are closer to her this way than ever. She sees what always remains hidden. She sees blurs where all these people are, bows for them in a black dress and black shoes,