Maybe those who believe A piece of your soul Is stolen with each photograph taken Are right
Reflecting back over the years, Looking at her tortured face In that static image, I wonder. I hope not, for my sake.
Hard to contemplate so many stolen moments Pieces of others’ lives captured By my lenses, the films’ emulsion Now sitting in dust covered albums, yellowed envelopes and crooked frames
She stood hunched over, frozen Jaw clenched and hands knitted, Holding or hugging herself Against her chill that July. Paralyzed by her private pain Writ large there in public, on the Mall Countless others had and have since Faced their own demons In that monument’s polished black marble (I have seen them)
For twenty minutes or a little less I watched her pilgrimage, her prayer A stranger motionless that stopped me That held my attention And the camera’s gaze before me. Me a voyeur, an intruder, an unwelcome confidant.
She stood too near the names To turn away; But her feet and legs Couldn’t carry her slight frame forward To touch the past The walkway before her still, I imagine, never to be breached.