Photograph of a Woman Who Fell off Her Bike (ROUND 2)

Let's workshop this poem about a photographer obsessed with an artistic calling that has taken over his life like a demon

scent of the day: Opus II, by Amouage. An oriental nougere that replaces the standard oakmoss-tonka base with an incensey papyrus but otherwise sticks close to the rules (a green top of lavender and artemisia; florals in the mid), Opus 2—its creamy and nutty pepper reminiscent of Honour Man, its high-intimacy restraint reminiscent of Dia Man, it gender-bender aspect reminiscent of Lyric Man—successfully captures the scent of aged scrolls that have gone a bit sweet-and-sour from mold and serves as a nice preamble to the more distinct fougere in the Amoiage lineup: Bracken Man

Photograph of a Woman Who Fell off Her Bike

Suspiciously chipper, Jacques-Henri broke the silence.
“Let’s say we bring the bikes out for air!” His reason,
she well knew (like she knew his manias), was to take
photos with the contraption he often slept beside.
And yet the pride of being a genius’s wife—the pillar,
cooking, cleaning, fucking—on which his work relied
(a fact he never let her forget), could not but grease
the gears of wishful spin that lifts humans to the stars.
More secure that she would not expose his own tale
than that she bought it, he shrugged in the doorway
and went back for the camera (a wink of just in case).

A few strides ahead along the trail, she flew headlong
over the handlebars—BMX anachronism magnified 
by her high-bodice dress (think: Miss Gulch). “Watch
for roots!” he had screamed, his warning still hanging
as she face-planted. She began explaining how the hem 
got caught, snagged in the gears, when she swerved
to avoid roots—hoping this testimony of happenstance
would forestall his certain criticism, would dissuade 
the lecture on what she should have done to avoid 
such a dramatic culmination. Seeking injury’s pardon,
she groaned for her scraped knee and her soiled dress.

His interest in critiquing her technique, in using this
as a teachable moment (as he tended to during respite), 
paled in comparison to the calling of art. The shot,
whether it boiled down to void evasion or the OCD
(nibbling, pacing) common in zoos—that dictated all.  
It was for the shot that he had her press her face back 
into the weeds. “Vite!” he yelled, his urgency laced 
with five-second-rule logic. He adjusted her bonnet
(tweaking its drama, just enough to look unposed),
then dashed to his spot: where he was when she fell. 
She was happy to oblige, to be spared his scolding.

Photo Credit: the great Jacques-Henri Lartigue