I could no longer play. I could not play by instinct

	—Francesca Woodman, 1977

Not after design revealed itself—shadow,
	dark dress, sunlight, bare chest,

loose hand, knife blade. This math
	forces direction toward a

cut, somewhere. The lines between
	black and white, between

what’s revealed and what hides
	away from the light. The urge

to slice inevitable, not instinctive.
	What spills out a sum, not a choice.

Self-Deceit
	—after Francesca Woodman’s photographic sequence
 
Get close to ground—as low
	as you can, like a snake.
 
It won’t matter. As long
	as there is glass—mirrors,
 
windows, lenses—you can’t
	escape from yourself. The glass
 
will catch every angle you want
	to hide, every line where
 
there should be curve, every
	gap that should be full
 
of flesh, of fire, of light, of
	life. Even if you manage to
 
keep your face out of the frame,
	you know, we know, your
 
elbows, your back, the crevasses
	behind your knees. It’s all
 
plain to see. Even your desire
	to blur into darkness, to float away.
 

Author’s note: I’m fascinated by Francesca Woodman’s photographs. The composition, the perspective, the way light is exposed, it all seems like truth to me somehow, like the photos show a dimension of understanding I couldn’t see without them.  Whenever I write about Woodman’s work, my only goal is to let the photographs bring me to that dimension, to that level of understanding, or at least to the questions I have to ask to get there.

Jack B. Bedell is Professor of English and Coordinator of Creative Writing at Southeastern Louisiana University where he also edits Louisiana Literature and directs the Louisiana Literature Press. Jack’s work has appeared in HAD, Heavy Feather, Pidgeonholes, The Shore, Moist, Okay Donkey, EcoTheo, The Hopper, Terrain, and other journals. His work has also been selected for inclusion in Best Microfiction and Best Spiritual Literature. His latest collection is Ghost Forest (Mercer University Press, 2024). He served as Louisiana Poet Laureate 2017-2019.