Photographs as Conquerors
She languishes beyond the portraits made,
Aligned above the keyboard and then on
Her dressing table. In the one with shade
Below the left eye rests a darker dawn
Which, if we might have known its meaning first,
Would maybe have required us all to see
Her as a branding iron might have. Death burst
Upon her from within her. No trustee
Had been appointed for her beauty so
The years erase it. In its place are snaps
And formal portraits. She is like the snow
Of yesteryear. Her beauty is just lapse.
Her beauty is replaced by images.
It’s now less memorable than scrimmages.
~ Phillip Whidden