Nikon Coolpix, S210
Taylor Byas
Tom Howard/Margaret Reid Poetry Contest 2021 (view all the winners)
Honorable Mention, Margaret Reid, Traditional Verse
Once, I wanted a camera, another set of eyes
to magnify the small black semicolons marching up
the backyard gate. To see the ants the way
prey would see them moments before their feast. I wanted
to magnify the small black semicolons marching up
my legs—that dark prickling of first hair—the way my
prey would see them moments before their feast. I wanted
to know what it was to be a boy, I mean. To be close enough to really see
my legs, that dark prickling of first hair, the way my
hair curled into its own hieroglyphics between them.
To know what it was to be a boy, I mean to be close enough to really see,
took practice. I modeled. I studied the shots of my
hair curled into its own hieroglyphics. Between them,
accidental shots of my hand slurred into four. Getting it right
took practice. I modeled, I studied, the shots of my
body became clearer and less familiar at once. Everything felt
accidental. Shots of my hand slurred into four, getting it right
in the frame before the flash. I took nude photos. My
body became clearer and less familiar at once. Everything felt
like a distortion of what I could touch. I swear, I changed
in the frame. Before the flash, I took nude photos, my
brown skin ashing in the light. I realized the pictures were
like a distortion of what I could touch. I swear I changed
the lens. I still couldn't become myself.
Brown skin, asking. In the light, I realized the pictures were
what a boy would make me into with his eyes,
the lens. I still couldn't become myself
once I wanted a camera. Another set of eyes.
