by Myronn Hardy

I watch a woman sift through
kidney beans   pulling dark stones
from the piles of red in her hands.   I
take a sip of water from the bottle   my
American stomach weakest of all.   There
is a woman laughing with her friends.   She
stands near the table of nail polish and
French perfume where the flies have
woven their knotty net.     I point my camera
at her.   She covers her eyes with a bronze
hand.   No.   No.   This soul is mine.
She runs across the bridge; her friends
follow in a braid of smoke. There is a
dirty river between us   beer bottles   chicken
corpses   rotting fruit crates.  She stares
at me from the other side. On her head
a wool hat where it’s always summer   smooth
bare feet when they are always hard. She turns
away to buy little fish   their amber stares
premotions of hot oil and onions.   I
photograph the water before the bridge falls.
I look for her after I put my camera away
and know that there are only apparitions
in the day’s last glow.

From Approaching the Center (New Issues Press, 2001)

Myronn Hardy is the author of two books of poetry, Approaching the Center (2001) and The Headless Saints (2008) both published by New Issues Poetry and Prose.

*Photo courtesy of guthrie schroeder.