Still Life
by Sharon E. Crowley
There are two in the photograph,
A tall, dark-haired man leaning back,
His head tilted, framed by green leaves
While a heavy wind blows his hair
Forward. Beside him, with clasped hands,
Stands a girl dressed in blue, her face,
Though it could be a pretty face,
Clearly suffering this picture
To be taken, as though some hand
Holds her, pressing against her back
Or gripping hard into her hair,
Pulling at the nape. She can't leave
The place where she stands, though leaving
Is what she wants to do. Her face,
Framed by billows of curled brown hair,
Stares out sternly from the photo,
Eyes dark. I am taken aback
By the fear evident in hands
Held still and white with clenching, hands
Showing the strain of not leaving,
Of being forced to stand, stiff-backed,
Held by the threatening faces
Of others who want this picture
To come out nice. I feel fine hairs
Bristle on my neck, a hairline
Crack in my composure. My hands
Go cold when I see this photo.
I keep it folded in the leaves
Of an old book, shelved high, faces
Pressed flat, but sometimes I think back
And can't help looking. Turning back
The dry pages, twisting my hair
With shaking fingers, there's my face
And memories of his rough hands
Brush against my neck like the leaves
Stilled behind me in this picture,
Taken back when my father's hands
Held my hair, and I could not leave
Until my face was photographed.