I, Eclipse

I snap a photo of only
a slice of my face, rarely
even half, mostly just
eye and cheekbone,
hair, and in the distance,
a window cracks onto
a mirror, a path winnows
to a door: eclipse—these
obscurations, a coming
between, entering a
shadow of the primary.
From Greek, to forsake its
accustomed place. Clip
your toes and winged
heels, Achilles, then dash
through the page, absent,
or deprived of light. A
vnyuersall darkenesse
as the Night-Hag dances
with Lapland Witches.
Labouring Moon,
writes Milton in Paradise
Lost. Eclippid was hee.
Ha ha. My work is done,
I said the other day.
As if finding a link to David’s
pesky conference form was
some sort of extra-difficult
feat. Starrie my sight.
Not quite when one
reads about Gerda Taro,
age 26, dying on front lines
in the Spanish Civil War,
broadsided by a reversing
army tank, her photos
often attributed to
Robert Capa—most
acclaimed war
photographer of the 20th
century—but Google
highlighted her on their
Doodle, August 1, 2018,
and now I know part-
ially about her. Path of
totality righted . . .
by a logo. Or not. Eek.
One learns to look
away. Eejit: next
in the OED! Also eediot,
reports our favorite
dictionary. Sometimes
you just want to
throw up your digits.
Or, return to language:
syzgy, for instance—
alignment of three or so
celestial bodies,
occluding each other.
Not to belabor
the points, but Taro,
called The little Fox
for her small size, stealth,
quickness, and strawberry
blond mane. Sly. She
even concocted her
own name, referencing
Greta. Suffice it to say
this anti-fascist
bivouacked with
Republican forces,
fought Stalinists and
anti-Semites with every
camera wit. Writ on air.