The Discarded

A shutter held open long enoughcan capture most things. Widenedtowards light, waiting for enoughof it, waiting to close. A girl and a boyin a Jeepenter a cornfield in the dark.She makes a loopin his flannel shirt, instinctiveclutch, the kind newborns know.What can she expect, seenthrough his small aperture, his irisa rough f-stop? Their courtship,in this way, is willed to be longest,thickest of exposures. In the low light,if her bare arms were lit, you'd seetheir lines on the print, slow wraparound his back. And the wheel,hard-stopped, growing sugar-blackin its constant position.Likewise, his disinterested placein the bucket seat. Sometimes he tells hershe is pretty, with his handsin her hair, how he'd like to spend a few yearsmaking sandwiches for her in a kitchen,the quaint linoleum kind. How he'll lovinglywash and shake-dry her lettuce, slice the breadinto cat's ears every day. A baby crowout the window, Daddy Crow waitingfor mellowscotch pie. Boiler of syrup,butter, yolk, his hand over her handon the hot aluminum handle. Really,

he does not want these things. Doesn'teven want anyone to know he's herewith her. Just wants that open part. For her, it is the world.For him, it is the car. In the field.After curfew. Families down the roaddrawing the farmhouse blinds.And her weak heart rehearsing,silently, the half-truth she'll offerwhen he's been dodged from her print,light-blocked from that world:

Well we did nothingbut talk. I kept myself ajar,but I couldn't capture a thing.