The Rebecca Portraits, Paul Strand, 1920-1932

Hold still, he said, two minutes. Maybe

three. This is what the photos say,

and this. Limits of beauty, tenderness.

Three minutes. Sometimes four.

He laid her out on the lino floor.

What she wanted most was to be

seen. Who would she love, and how

would she know? Silver button,

blinded eye. Idle she is, and so bereft.

The stages of learning are limited

to the practice you invest. Mostly,

she wanted to be seen.

Begin with endings, sleeping pills. Colcha

stitch. Her without him. First the pupil,

then the iris painted in. You see the image

from the other side, from across that glass

divide. The photos may be turned more ways

than one. He did intend this loss of ground.

And she was waiting to be seen.