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Flash, a poem by Cloe Watson


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.