catchlight

under the gervais st. bridge, our voices domed   like a cathedral. shoulders dipped in sunlight, a baptism of sorts. we came to take pictures. searched for subjects like graffiti on piers, what my mother calls angel     rays in the sky,      that yellowed, humid glint in your eyes. maybe i ran out of film     or my batteries died      because when we finally found our shot, you used your iphone. neither of us have a right to decide what is holy.                       i told you i was almost a catholic baby, a half-lie i wanted to be true if only because i knew     you would be disappointed. there is no glory in either of our doubts: your face when i talked of  prayer, how walking across that bridge  back to your car,             i remembered that what gives a photo life is artificial light.