Transmute

Shattered Masks and Phoenix Fire
Scattered about the floor are ashes:
the murky remnants of past lives
permanently preserved in polaroids.
To my left, there is a boy
in sightly churchy clothes.
Clearly he is moving away
from who he is supposed to be.
Long hair shades his eyes.
His slacks and polo veer slightly
from tradition.
In front he stands within a huddle,
hand on hip (like most boys)
preparing to execute the play drawn up before him.
The past does not always lie:
not all masks are meant to die.
Friends and basketball:
two things she’ll always want.
Beside that he is posing as a hunter
ten pheasants laid before him
though he’s never held the gun.
Death (for others) has never been his wish.
She smiles with her dad, her uncle and her cousin,
and in this pose she can better hide
with more family by her side.
Further right he hides his face,
much like she’s hid it from herself.
I cannot see his pain
though I know his inner struggle.
In the final photo I see him plopped down on a knee,
a position he will never take again.
I see him pleading.
And though others do perceive this
as a part of the performance,
they do not comprehend the larger stage.
They do not understand the binding of the vest
nor sense her supplicating silence.
14