A photograph is as thin as the truth:
in front, an image; behind, nothing’s there.
The void is more than lack of mass, or air,
or essence, meaning old age finds in youth,
or randomness. It’s fear that when we act,
desire is nothing, shadows on a screen,
a flickering candle casting its sheen
until it’s out. Then the shade dims to black.
Who hasn’t spoken to a dead loved one
through images? Who hasn’t traced outlines
of faces? Heard a voice, divined the signs?
There’s silence, though, when it’s all said and done.
We never really say goodbye. Until
the likenesses of those whom we loved fade
from memory, they live. We are all made
flimsy as icons stamped on a handbill.
Richard Stimac lives in the St. Louis, Missouri area. He has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region. He invites you to follow his poetry Facebook page: ‘Richard Stimac poet’
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