w i t n e s s
for photojournalist james nachtwey


:  c h r i s t o p h e r    l o c ke

In the ruined village in Kosovo,
you swing your camera towards
the family, see them huddled
around a body like small towers
of smoke. You know the dead boy
was a son, a husband, and they
implore him, weep him, call out
his memory between unbelieving
lips. Some mourners shake their arms
towards the sky like sunflowers
beating against the sun as the shutter
opens and closes, opens and closes,
trying to blink away what it’s seen.

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