the other legacy

she sat in her classroom,
looking at the  photographs
she'd taken of his photographs.
When she saw them, the first time

  he'd stepped into her like wine.
  she wandered further into his mind
 uncontrollably clicking her phone
plucking grapes from his vine. it was unethical

but his photos sold for thousands, she
wasn't a pirate. she was merely in love.
 her husband couldn't know, no one
should know how cold she was without him.

 she cut herself on tape and thistles
dripped blood on   silver nitrate film
noting digital would continue as dom
she bought a box camera, an umbrella lamp.

she needs the money. it's why she teaches
the kids here are ok but she's not seen real art
the kind that makes you worship a god
you don't believe in. budget cuts are taking her

darkroom. he died from advanced pulmonary
 disease yesterday. she lights a cigarette thumbs
through photographs of photographs. locks the outside door
 turns out the lights.  kind hands touch her shoulders

lightly, lead her to the darkroom. she loves the chemistry,
watching him  resolve  on paper, a solution attaching itself
 to being.  her last exposure is a double,   his interesting ears
melt  into a noose that fits like a second skin around her neck.