Perhaps she tumbled from doorframe to ground,
fabric and limbs crumpled
on hexagonal tiles –
perhaps landed leaf-like – the crunch of a moment
snatched in spite of time
enough
to loosen fingers from wood, dust and cobweb,
crucifix figure of the gone-moment
sealed in gelatin silver.
A good photograph in monochrome can make one
disregard the reality of colors.
I forget
there were hues in her existence, invisible to the city
in whose bustle her hope
was engulfed…
There is nothing romantic about suicide, they say.
But there is a necrophilia inseparable
from the veneration of art.
My friends and I joke, call the darkroom a crypt,
spend hours in its cider-light, famished,
feet aching, necks stiff…
If I didn’t love this so much, I’m telling you,
I would either give up
or lose my sanity.
If we killed and ate each other tonight, reckon
future psychologists would
make us famous?
…sustained by the posthumous emergences
in developing trays, moments we
snatched in spite of time.
(In response to an untitled photograph by Francesca Woodman)