Fort Macon

On Viewing A Photograph a Few Years Old
T.N. Pound

That’s youth for you,
look at her legs spread apart
like Atlas holding up the heavens,
the whole world outside
shining through the windows
she leans toward, as if desirous.

The windows, one, two, three,
like a gameshow,
which will she take?
But it’s a sightseeing stop, a fort —
does that mean she’ll have to fight?

We know she’s not a man,
right? Though she looks
strong enough to be a god.
Combining the best of both
she appears on the edge —
like a Vermeer girl
turning to say…or maybe
just turning away —
in some masculine garments.

Why does she look back at you?
Or me, I’d think, except
I’m not the one who took
the picture. But I look.
Have I said the brick
makes me think of oven doors?
I’m scared for her.
And that glare…
How many stories down?
I wasn’t there.

Just the two of you.
What’s going on between
your glances, what occurred
before, and after?
What did you say that made
her turn to check you out?
Just a click, or first a word?
Or did your silence frighten her?

Had you been watching, admiring?
What an advertisement she’d be
for all things that make you feel
good in a sensual way.
Maybe you weren’t seeing
her for her; as she viewed
the world perhaps the light
across her back struck you,
streaming in as through
cathedral doors, and there she stood
midway between the bricks and sun
gloriously lit and shadowed —
a Scandinavian gangster
headed to heaven;
an alabaster angel
of the demimonde.

Just then, aware of you, wondering,
she turns and looks —
maybe you click the shutter
in surprise.
Rather I think it was you
that called her name softly.