NaPoWriMo April 4
Plate 359—Eadward Muybridge
The man with the gun must be thinking, out there
is the center of his purpose. The grains of the gun's wood
snug against the hip-bone. Left arm cradling the long barrel
so that the tip with the affixed blade tilts upward. Heart-level.
Purpose breathes its long kiss into his ear. A breathless kiss
held so that the man's stomach cinches into a concave sack.
Love falls where the wind carries his body—in short
asthmatic huffs as the man's legs move him forward, left
right, left. All the while, the butt of the rifle presses against
his flesh. Spring air let into the studio pulls the dark velvet
curtains from their rods as the coffee cools. Just as casually
a knife, raised up against the black backdrop says "look."
The man's shadow shakes in the new light as his bayonet
halves the air, fits itself into the fissures of an imagined breastbone.
Purpose as close to the edge of the picture frame as an arm. Purpose
to fill the wound, half bloodied and hot. The urge of the rifle
slaps against his thigh. Purpose as far as a country
where no memory can drive itself as deep as the hilt.