by Kelsey Sucena
I begin at the body.
I trace with my fingertips,
a line down its chest,
across its shoulders I rub for dust,
and up the neck I brush away the unbrushable.
This world, a cemetary of ash,
and shell and pigment on paper.
And from it I, “angel of death”,
remember that nothing lasts so long as silver.
This is the world.
Or rather it is world making,
no memory sealed on moab matte.
And I am taker, maker, the body, electric.
The sky is dyed blue with failure,
and in frustration I think to desaturate it.
But what of the yellow sand?
And what of the ochre chest?
I trace my thumb across the dunes,
and in them the roots of many things,
breaching, breathing, breaking and remaking.
The dune grass is a more constructive hand.
“The swimmer naked in the swimming bath
as seen through transparent green shine”.
The swimmer, nameless, faceless,
erased by a sudden gust of wind.
My thumb sweeps across like sandhill crane,
and finds its way to the desk the photo rests on.
It is cool, and it is solid,
and my finger dives across it for fish.
A wave is breaching the berm crest,
and a sea is soaking up the paper.
Concealing eyes and looking tongue,
I have not always been so kind to this one.
I end at my own.
Kelsey Sucena is a New York based photographer, poet, and park ranger currently residing on Long Island. Working at the intersection of photography and poetry, their work investigates concepts of identity, impermanence, and language, pairing written words with photographic narratives to investigate the existential nature of documenting life.