Indiana Problem (after John Yau)

In the photo of me outside the airport I am wearing pink: glasses, skirt, woven belt, shoes. The tree I touch is not wearing leaves, only the pale green light of future leaves. Together we are a statue that represents the end of “childhood” as we know it. See how the braces glint in the sun, the eyes move cementward. Behind the camera there is no love, only a desire to end each moment before it arrives. All of us together—me, tree, camera, eyes—are in this box together. Even you, the hands that put it away and forgot it, are inside this body we make: the body that remembers while the other one keeps moving toward the disappearing planes.