In the Photograph by Moses Rice

In the photograph by Moses Rice, Walt Whitman and Pete Doyle sit in straight-backed chairs set side-by-side. The chairs face opposite directions. The men look into each other’s eyes.

Both men wear hats: Walt, his rumpled Stetson; Pete’s bowler bears a wide, bright ribbon band. Pete wears his best light coat; Walt, a dark, baggy suit. Walter wears no tie; Pete’s rests neatly on his chest. Slouched, Walt folds his arms. Peter sits upright.

The two men sit in profile before a faded screen. Walt’s eyes smile at Pete, to encourage and to chide. Pete smirks his challenge back. Does his hand reach to grip the seat beneath Walt’s leg? Does the back of his hand rub against warmed wool?

This thing we gay men do: we peer at yellowed photographs of men in pairs together. Buddies link arms and smile. A seated youth drapes his leg across his fellow’s lap. Arms flung around shoulders, shirtless sailors grin. Cowboys waltz, eyes closed, as if remembering a dream.

We seek a lidded look, parse our hidden love. so many years of being hated, hunted, driven from sight. Our love, obscured; our history, erased. We interrogate the men these pictures bring to us:

Does their mugging mock the future, or is that their disguise? Do they dare stand close? Do they dare to touch an arm? Do they gaze into the lens or, maybe, find each other’s eyes?

My love, will we soon become a cipher, too?

When you and I first met, no friend took photographs of us. We made our own ways to celebrate our bond. Only now, after decades of our love, do we appear in photographs as one: side-by-side on a garden bench, together on a boat. Sometimes, I put an arm around your shoulder. Sometimes, we embrace.

In the photograph by Moses Rice, Walt Whitman and Pete Doyle sit in straight-backed chairs set side-by-side. They signify their love to all the passing years, their gift to us come after.