It was the last flare out
I watched his hands mimic the affairs of the universe.
And fall out of the light of the fire.
Boot pressed up against a boulder.
As if he were holding it up.
Read MoreLast of Our Kind
Intimate View
// To look on another’s face and have an appreciated understanding. To have traveled converging lines, and end up here. Here, where we stand at a shallow distance. Knowing without asking, sustaining a silent dialogue. This light, referenced in our eyes, is sufficient assurance. Continuing to dwell in this space, believing all of this to be a beautiful exchange of shorelines for open ocean. All for the means of tending to a mutual need; the imperative interchange, to be known. //
Structure of Everday Life
A collaborative work of Images by Bill Franson and words by e. f. cianci.
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Levelled
I will give you back your ring and internalize the nakedness. I will shave my legs, and button shorts over my waist because the sun feels good on my thighs. I will look forward, as if this is a concept I can truly comprehend, and I will close my eyes. And my cheeks will well with heat, salt, and water. And I will simultaneously be light and heavy. I will be alone for multiplying months and I will ask my mother, “Why don’t they see anything in me?” and I will not want her to answer. I will fall sleep alone again tonight, cat at the foot of the bed.
Lifted
I awake to a humming static in the distance that swiftly builds into a full roaring wind. Suddenly, I’m hit. Head rushing as if taken by an ocean’s wave. I’m towed under. Caught in my trespassing. Only drawn to the surface by the aching of wood, the giving way, and the crash.
Read MoreFiguring Ground
We’re checking for values, the highs and the lows. An ideal balance between light and dark. Highlights and Blacks. Florescent light ripples over the slick chemical coat that soaks the pulpy fiber-based page. My photo professor’s fingers gloss over with fixer as he takes the tray from my hands. His eyes bat around the image, perching on the Polaroid just shy of dead center. Reaching from his neck, he mirrors the stance of the wide-eyed child. I stand silently as the two meet somewhere in time. The muscles in his face flinch. Into a smile almost. Eyes never leaving the print he tells me, “You still give me that look.” But I’m not smiling. I know exactly what he means.
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