“Captured” -Savannah

It started out innocently enough

We were on our way

out

Mr. Mills and I

Going to the theatre. I think it was to see Gershwin's latest

Mr. Mills was already in the car

I had forgotten my gloves,

had to run back in the house.

It wasn't like me to be

for g et fu l.

I prided myself on having all my little ducks in a r

                                                   o

                                                   w.

But those past few

hours

days

weeks

had drained my concentration. I

                                                      was

                                                              s  ca  t t e   re   d.

Our careful, crystal facade had been shattered

                        and the jagged edges now lay 

       

                   in disarray.                                                                                            

                                                           

                                                    

S T O P.

R e   group.

You see, 

I thought I was a cold woman, aloof and                                   detached.                                                                              

I thought that's what I needed

to be able

to last.

In the complicated world of New York society.

But I was just as vulnerable as the next.

B r i t t l e.

Mama taught me to be a root.

How disappointed she would be.

Seeing me break.

[She'd never trade strength for money.]

I had tried to duck into the car

to join Mr. Mills

in the ambiguous bubble

of our Big Shiny Buick.

Before the reporter's peering eyes, penetrating gaze,

sharp questions

                             could unveil my pain.

There is a certain veneer we are to maintain, you see.

But my effort to escape his affront was  u n  s   u    c     c      e       s        s         f          u           l

I hate

that word.

“Mrs. Mills, I am from the New York Society Diary,”

he said

he said

“All of New York wants to know...how are you and Mr. Mills doing in light of...well, recent events?”

How are we doing? Who said we? And what the hell do you mean by events?

         E

           v

             e 

               n

                 t

                   s

                     ?

I want

to scream

the syllables at him.

How do you think I am doing?

I am mere moments from flinging my words at him, sharp daggers, meant to draw blood and pain,        

make things even,

                  settle the score,

 in this abyss of agony.

                                                                    Until.

I remember.

I remember what my mama used to say, when I was a little girl down South

Before I met Mr. Mills

  

                                  Before

the fur coats,

the shiny cars,

the big houses,

and all the money.

[Mr. Mills' money.]

My mama would stroke my hair with her tired hands, and say

“Baby girl, if you only remember one ounce of what I say to you, let it be this:

Never let them see you sweat.”

Her voice rings in my ears.

I suck the anger back in.

Don't let it erupt from the surface.

Where it bubbles

                                                                  and threatens.

“May I take your picture for this week's edition, Mrs. Mills?”

Clenched jaw.

“Never let them see you sweat.”

My wild eyes search for Mr. Mills'. “Will you save me?” my eyes implore.

“All you have to do is ask,”

He once said.

Said he once.

The whispering of a feeling

Long ago.

Gone. Past. Lost. Buried. Eulogized. 

I look away from his face.

Stuff my cold hands in my pockets.

[Where are my

                                                                   

                                                                        gloves

                                                                   

                                                ?]

Mr. Mills peers out. But it is me,

                                       ME

who is

                              e   x    p  o   s   e   d.

      Outside the safety net.

My eyes are trained on the cold, unforgiving asphalt.

It offers no comfort.

Perhaps it shouldn't be called asphalt. Perhaps

    “Mr. Mills”

                                                            is a better name.

“Up, please. Here at the camera”

He says

says He

My eyes flash, beating the camera to it

The daggers beg to be let  l  o   o     s       e

How dare you tell me what to do?

Indignation boils like hot soup.

“Never let them see you sweat.”

S  l   o   w   l   y

My gaze meets the camera.

                                                C    l  i     c     k.

I have been

                                    captured.

[Is this what

                  defeat 

feels 

                                         

                                          like?]

I hate

that word.

So.

now you can tell me, New York.

                           

How are we coping?

___________________________________________________________________________________

This Ekphrastic poem is written with the approach of writing in the voice of the person/object depicted in the work of art, “Couple in Raccoon Coats” photographed by James Van Der Zee.