I take a photograph of bleeding red berries in a porcelain bowl.
The sun glints from the window of my breakfast nook.
I eat those berries and fresh squeezed juice. That’s another photograph.
I take a photograph of my new nail polish, “Ravishing,” as I clasp a glass.
I am being photographed by an acquaintance as we place our heads together.
She extends her long arm, we have black sunglasses and lip gloss.
My sister sends photographs of her vacation: popsicles, bicycles, ocean.
My other sister sends photographs of her hikes.
I take a photograph of my house plant, perky and stretching in a gold square planter.
I take a photograph of a new silky tank top on a plastic hanger.
My kids take several photographs that I didn’t see but they were sent.
I stop on the sidewalk and take a photograph of the vibrant begonias but
deleted them seeing many others.
I take a photograph of my “avocado toast” drizzled with olive oil and paprika.
I take a photograph of my hands typing, of my right eye, bulbous and wet.
I slink around, take photographs of corners and trash.
The old lady looks great in that apron skirt. I take a photograph. She pulls out a grin.
The man on the subway, open shirt, sweat rivers in chest curls, I had to be discreet.
I spend the afternoon looking at people’s photographs I only know by name.
I spend the afternoon reorganizing books: poetry, theory, “how tos,” and nobody
was there to see what I did.
My desk has a window where I can see multiple trees.
In these trees are various birds.
I like to think about how beautiful this is, this office. What I would call a “scene.”
I take a photograph of steak with heirloom tomatoes padding its side.
In a dressing room, I wrap a scarlet scarf around my neck and snarl.
I take a photograph of a farmer’s market, shiny eggplants and radishes.
I take a photograph of a cat, a dog, a baby rabbit.
I take a photograph of a group of teens in shorts.
I accidently take a round of photographs, “a burst,” of the wood floor.
I see the cardinal, male, his glow.
In the sun, shiny things wave wildly. The leaves twinkle, then still.
I take a photograph of the art exhibit, but my image bounces on to the glass.
I take a photograph of my tan toes. I take a photographic walk of tree holes.
When I lounge on the brushed orange couch I look like a demure cat.
When I raise my body tall I’m an ancient kind of sculpture.
With hands on my hips I could look mean.
The barista steams a heart on my coffee drink, yesterday he did a bear.
The ivy on the fence follows paths of light.
My friend is a mom so she became a mom photographer.
Everyone seems to be going to Europe.
He would always take photographs of what was dead, ruining our albums.
I photograph a blue-grey circular rug.
I photograph a man through the slat of a fence.
I photograph their ice cream and their glitter.
I try to photograph her birthday brunch but became aware of other diners.
I arrange an old photograph of him, velour clothes, 80’s hair, on the vanity table.
I call him my “crush” and point like it was a bright idea, into the air.
I photograph from the second floor then run down to street level.
I look at photographs of others’ devastation, despair.
I photograph my new mini fan, mint-colored, vintage.
I photograph my air plant in its ceramic bowl.
I photograph my friend at her book launch.
My other friend told me to crane my neck upwards when I’m in photographs.
My summer is hell. Lots of people are dying.
Did you know I cry and am quiet inside myself for many hours.
Jennifer Firestone is the author of five books of poetry and four chapbooks including Story (UDP), Ten (BlazeVOX [books]), Gates & Fields (Belladonna* Collaborative), Swimming Pool (DoubleCross Press), Flashes (Shearsman Books), Holiday (Shearsman Books), Waves (Portable Press at Yo-Yo Labs), from Flashes and snapshot (Sona Books) and Fanimaly (Dusie Kollektiv). She co-edited (with Dana Teen Lomax) Letters To Poets: Conversations about Poetics, Politics and Community (Saturnalia Books) and is collaborating with Marcella Durand on a book about Feminist Avant-garde Poetics. Firestone has work anthologized in Kindergarde: Avant-Garde Poems, Plays, Songs, & Stories for Children and Building is a Process / Light is an Element: essays and excursions for Myung Mi Kim. She won the 2014 Marsh Hawk Press’ Robert Creeley Memorial Prize. Firestone is an Associate Professor of Literary Studies at the New School’s Eugene Lang College and is also the Director of their Academic Fellows pedagogy program.