The Photographer’s Model Speaks (Cuatros Vientos)

by Sara Barnard

 

No winds blow here today.

There is nothing moving

save what I move for you.

 

Not the burnt brown scrub or the prickled bush

Not the ridged orange dust by parked car tyres.

Not the chemist’s once hopeful silver squares,

 

balled tissues measuring this week’s love.

Only the dirty door as it opens, clicks shut.

Grass blades crack under stumbling boots.

 

Wet tongue creaks on open lips.

If I turn my head maybe the ends

of your mouth crease behind the lens.

 

Bitten fingers lift layer after layer,

(surprising white meets waiting air)

pull petals from a yellow flower.

 

Discarded glass shows gold-spun skies,

starry seas. And then we are joined

in the crushing of ants and dreams…

 

A plane circles in the blue.

A bike goes round the bend.

A parked car revs and rolls.

 

Between bike and car there is time;

for brick to coldly scratch breasts,

for chains to clink on slatted fence,

for rope to redden wrists.

There is time for throats

to open out in birdsong.

 

Four hearts blindly gripped.

four hands, more faces, crowd

numbered days behind all this.

 

But there are only you and me

to be sure that the horse walked

blackly by, whinnying at your whip.

 

 

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Sara Barnard (she/her) is from the UK, has lived in Spain and Canada, and is now based on a sailboat (currently in Central America) with her husband, child, and laptop for company. The last few years have mainly been about parenting and PhDing. She has recently had work accepted/published by Bone & Ink Press, Glass Poetry Press, Hypertrophic Literary, Ink & Nebula, and Anti-Heroin Chic.

Say hi on Twitter: @Sara_Barnard