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Flash
Your hands on my first digital camera,
your nails so round and soft at the capture.
What am I then? Ripped ballerina tights
or a half-released bun? Just don’t let me see.
I want you to do it, girl—he showed me
what bodies can do, and now, my hands
don’t belong on anything. I am 11,
and already I wish to fracture the universe
with a flash. Let us be Then, let us be
the arm you used to shoulder me into
the frame, into you. You can’t imagine
what parts of a man can be stored
in a silver box. That insistent arm of yours
has kept me alive.
Cloe Watson is a graduate of the MFA program at Bowling Green State University. Her work has been published in Blue Unicorn, The Windsor Review, Oakland Review, Grand Little Things, The Racket Journal, Wingless Dreamer, Beyond Words Literary Magazine and Defunkt Magazine.