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Ann Dancy

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Dark Room

for Anne

We are winding negatives by sound and touch,
listening for the grate of torn film,
the easy pull of half connected spools.
My eyes dilate till they ache
but it is your hand on my arm
that guides the scissors through the dark.

The red bulb comes on, we agree
about expensive restaurants, cheap clubs
but we are speaking softly, measuring
like alchemists, filtering a solution
that smells like vinegar and bleach
through a seal that will not let in light.

Hip to hip we stand, rocking dishes
chanting the sounds almost in time.
Above, someone slams a door, runs,
heels come knocking on the stairs.
Your grainy ghost is cursing
frayed close-ups, over-exposed and dull

but here, each tide I tip
mascerates the coated card
breaks the memory in silver strips,
unlocks your eyes, contours your mouth
and loose between my thumbs
your proven face comes sliding up.

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