Bellocq – April 1911

There comes a quiet man now to my room–

Papa Bellocq, his camera on his back.

He wants nothing, he says, but to take me

as I would arrange myself, fully clothed–

a brooch at my throat, my white hat angled

just so–or not, the smooth map of my flesh

awash in afternoon light. In my room

everything’s a prop for his composition–

brass spittoon in the corner, the silver

mirror, brush and comb of my toilette.

I try to pose as I think he would like–shy

at first, then bolder. I’m not so foolish

that I don’t know this photograph we make

will bear the stamp of his name, not mine.

–Natasha Trethewey, Bellocq’s Ophelia (2002)