My friends and I would laugh when I was young
because those natives—Asian, African,
half-naked some, and some without a stitch—
cringed when the Geographic's magic man
trapped their souls in photographing their flesh.
Or so the text said, with a nod and wink
to us sophisticated ten-year-olds
who knew enough to know that photographs
were simply tarnished silver, not juju,
not sacrament, not abomination.
I wonder now as I watch the silver-
haired senator congressman president
preen before the lens, nudging ideas,
adjusting the smile
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