Aaron Capelli, “After Avedon.”

After Avedon

Love is the gravest fantasy. Love is a photograph of the mind.

In a ward
you think you see
Audrey Hepburn.
A face floating over
a swan’s skeleton.
A ‘this is my daughter’
to a visitor.

Her white skin,
you want to call it paper,
is always being pulled
or harshly folded.
Always her hands are twisting
in the air.
And then you are on
videotape.

In it you are standing dumbly,
and you try to speak,
and words simply go rolling up,
up, over an edge.

Is something wrong.
No you say.
Then come on.
It is the next bed.

Yes, yes.
You know.

And you sit next to her
on the bed
and she has her hand
and some black hair
in her wide mouth,
so maybe, you think, maybe
she is frightened.
But you are only in love.
And that is not frightening.

Although she is looking
sick and cold now.
Her limbs have stiffened;
perhaps they are afraid.

Before her eyes rolled and rolled,
Now they are fixed and rigid,
staring at the floor. Angry.

That is not right.
That could not be right.
That could not be you.
And it is not you.

A nurse click-clicks over,
fast in a straight line.
You get up.
The moth is under your foot.

 

About the Author

Aaron Capelli was born in Santa Barbara, California, in 1992. He began to write poetry at the age of seven, having been introduced to haiku form in the second grade. He attended Santa Barbara High School for three years and began attending Santa Barbara City College in 2012.

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