Exposure
Ungloved hands
deep in developing fluid,
shaking a cylinder full of film
in the humming whiteness
of the photography lab, you discover
the sexual fantasy.
Silver curves surface in your dark
imagination, tender moonscapes of skin
lapsing into shadow, a glacial slide
of muzzy stomachs and thighs—
A hand on your shoulder
and you nearly scream.
It’s your grizzled professor,
his breath reeking of nicotine
and black cherry granola bar.
Sorry, you say. I’ll use protection next time,
by which you mean, you’ll wear gloves,
except you won’t do that either.
You’re going to dunk your hands
in those warm wet chemicals
and return to those secret islands
of flesh, those bodies yours
yet not your own.
Rita Feinstein |