magpies

there's dust on the photobook

Shoved deep behind the bookcase

There's dust on the photobook

Unlocked, I see myself the same

Same eyes, same nose, same teeth, same look

Waiting beneath thick guards

Grained film chained down to thin paper

Not yet knowing, reflects through plastic

Staring back at me on every layer

Pictures stained with sunlight

Pages creased and flicked and folded

A beautiful impression, chiselled into skin

Clay crafted and sculpted and scarred and molded

Pushed down, at thirteen, when the book took flight

Lighted by an eternal flame

Refusing the hues, engraved into blood

An unmerciful fire, turned tame

Each picture hidden with glass

Ignored and prayed to die

But the destined curtains opened slow

Releasing streams of sky

Washed black ink desperately clings

To photographs capturing every lobe of my love

Tearing through paper glued tight away

Lets out from its cage a white dove

Picked back up from off the floor

I placed the photobook back on the shelf

My parents sat and watched and knew

Knowing me better than myself