that stitching that light split.
no longer by ourselves.
silhouettes began to gather and stick.
they told me and showed me.
I was not afraid. because it was all out of focus.
The porch became important to the home.
we placed our machine heads on watch.
for recording and capturing.
for flashes do not inhabit. it was all on automatic.
grass heads had hands, waving
like it was right before some riot.
but it was just knowing what to do in the dark,
between flashes. we stood back.
it was what we always did.
Annie Guthrie is a writer and jeweler living in Tucson. She has work published or forthcoming in The Volta, Tarpaulin Sky, Fairy Tale Review, Ploughshares, H_NGM_N, Everyday Genius, Omniverse, EOAGH, Many Mountains Moving, The Destroyer, and more. She works and teaches at the University of Arizona Poetry Center.