Now, months after, I notice
every corner of your face is a museum
stuffed with sculptures,
mounds of memories
from buried cultures, reborn
with every coy smirk, carving deep
basins into the camera lens.
You flood the photograph
with ancient emotion and
a secret nudge of progress.
It is wrong to think
your plagues are alluring.
The dead litter
your pale lips, kissed and preserved
in the heat of your breath
and the dune-glazed sand
in your stare.
I pack the picture away,
humbled and full of spite,
into a dusty crate of distance,
sending your discoveries
to some fortune-hunting fool,
blessed and ignorant of
the curses in your artifact eyes.
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