for Steve
kerry rawlinson, Light Eater, 2022 (Website, Instagram, X)
Digital art photography
Courtesy of the artist
The photo is as much void as form, as much
sky as figure. You and her still as stone, worn
in the afterglow of the double sting. A wasp?
Hornet? Angry. Winged. Pursued, broke her
child skin twice. Hard. Out of nowhere. Out of
a wall where she leaned, unknowing. The swell
of pain rounded her then and for too long after.
It bloomed. Raged. But now you lie together
in palpable tenderness, profiled faces in parallel.
Bodies a horizon, formed one out of the other.
Twin ridges, valleys carved by common ice.
Your arm strong, sealed around the curve of her skull
—bulwark against further harm. The other side
of her head pressed against your cheek and neck, snug
in the curve of your shoulder and chest. Her tiger striped
face, circus paint, streaked by tears. Lips pursed, another
line. Her two hands mid-clap, held up. Light falls through
the window behind the red pillow. Soft mound of afternoon
sun aglow against the grey wall. Almost coming out of it.
Out of you. You who drove down the mountain, crossed
the Swannanoa (once), crossed (twice) through leaden
Asheville air. To deliver aid. To deliver her. You who sought
help. Who helped. You, head holder. Wound mender. Heart
maker, stealer, sealer. In the photo after a great wave
of pain, ridden out, mercifully, receded. Your eyes (her eyes)
closed in rest. Her eyes (your eyes) open wide.