At the Photo Exhibit

Where my picture stood stiffly in the dimness,
dumb on an artist’s easel as we whispered about
the ethics of photography just like we were told to
and I stepped aside and looked through the glass
that plays the part of a wall at the Ford Design Center
giving view to a large basement studio where men
play with power tool toys. From above
the workbenches are islands, and one is a bed
for a beige and ponderous mannequin whose limbs sway,
serene as it’s hoisted upwards, slung over the shoulder
of in image in its likeness. On its limp neck
dangles a head that bounces on a chest, on a beating heart.
I want to vacuum the ink off this print that bears my name
and recoil the words back into our mouths, refurl
the universe that flung these places pictured far
apart, across sea and sunbeat land from one another.
Instead I go home, pour coffee in a dirty mug,
watch the oil spots bloom across the surface, shiny gloaters
that explode when I sip, then curl like little broken ribbons
in the turbulence of a sip. I let it go cold and watch
the particles settle, shards of coffe beans that swirl
in dark tornados when I lift it to my lips.