Carrion by Wes Jamison

Author:Wes Jamison
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781636281179
Publisher: Red Hen Press
Published: 2024-07-15T00:00:00+00:00

I would capture her myself. A butterfly collector. I would place her in her library, one that is not also a bedroom, as in Monk’s house. I would place her on a stool in her library, and I would tell her to reach with her back arm—it would be her left arm—for Montaigne. But I would not move Montaigne to a higher shelf to achieve this pose. I would capture her reaching for Montaigne, whether she should squat, stand on tiptoe or on stool. I would have her eyes closed, because she knows exactly where it is—she must. He is not forgotten easily: he is well-worn and thumbed and licked-fingered. He is translated.

I would move her desk into her library, were it not already there. On the desk, the manuscript of The Waste Land. A photo: Leonard. Tom. Vita. The floor would be old, as old as she, and it would be rubbed and loose like she. I would push the chair in and I would pull it out three thousand times to create the stress on the varnish of the wood floor. I would take a picture of the floor where the chair originally was, before I moved it, and I would paint the floor of the library to look identical, should those three thousand pushes and pulls not suffice.

I would make her wear a cardigan. And I would make her barefoot. And as she posed, I would notice her hair sticking up, flyaways from the wind from the open window, and I would hang the camera from my neck for this moment, for walking over and saying, Jinny, your hair. It’s always your hair. I would take it down, and I would smooth it back, and I would put it back up and I would smile at her, feeling as though I were taking care of her. I would put it up and realize that I did it all wrong, and I would apologize and I would be so shy, and I would hate to ask her if she would redo it herself, but I would, and she would, and I would begin again, taking pictures with her hair up and disheveled.

And I would leave the shutter open, instructing her to breathe deeply, heavily, so I may capture the semitransparent swell of her chest. You can blink, please blink—I want you comfortable. I know, it seems strange, because it will be blurry, you will be blurry, but do not pose, not for this.

She would flippantly say, in her dark, commanding voice, If you wish to capture me naturally, then let me live naturally. You may leave the shutter open.

To let her, I would need to mount the camera and leave it there in the corner of the room, staring blankly and widely at some vanishing point it cannot truly see. And I would.

The document would first be mists, blurs, stretches of her across the room. An occasional ghost-like face, then many, then all mists over everything. Then the sun would set, and I would capture a dark room overtop a lit one.

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