Capture

I still look for him in the shadows
of photographs from those days, 
this child I chose not to have.

He spoke to me for years after.
His voice took form as wildflowers,
was carried through the air by 
fluttering butterflies.

I once thought that bodies went into 
the cold earth to be packed down 
by wandering dogs or curious beetles
with no soul escaping.

Ancient tribes believed the camera
steals one's soul. If so, is it 
the color of a rainbow, I wonder, 
or is it like radio waves waiting only 
to be received? If I sift hard enough 
through these shadows will my child rise 
up to sing to me again?

Pris Campbell
©2012

Published in PoetsArtists Journal, fall 2012

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