She takes my picture

in red lit dusk.  She’s a memory

collector—A Kodak wizard in a blue tie-dye sarong.

Dirty Martian martinis drank

on pool-side decks. The boys and I imitate

darts with olive spears. Red Texas sun

melts between glittered clouds and indigo mountains.

 

We become digital in her hand-

held archive: hands forming false languages,

body shots, stage tongue kisses,

while red eyes peer past photographer.

Take all the pictures you want, I say, my arm loosely around her knuckle nosed friend. A girl too young to be here. Come make memorable your night with me, I whisper in her ear. I am unbound-un-owned. I kiss her shoulder. I’m a mountain, a cloud, atoms and pixels, no one owns that.

Flashes.

Sun evaporates to indigo liquid. We toast. No one owns you. We share a mint julep. She smiles. They all smile, thinking they’re private creatures. I lead her by hand and cigarette; I’m the piper of moments leading them to computer screens, web pages. . . a bedroom.

I can have you, even if just for a second, I tell her, she kisses my cheek, I can have you ALL and your little cameras too.