Fetish: Widow glassKate Schapira
Every misreading of the past is possible. Invite the bird of spite to live in your mouth among the flowers of your furniture, the program not silence but versions, reiterations with letters missing. What ears came to believe fused, the creek’s heavy liquids flow past the picture toward home, to hardly remember what she was like before. Scratched roof and palate. Decals prevent collisions saying, “I love you,” to a pane cleaned by sleight of hand. Didn’t she always? A slight never. What is liquid if not contained, what thickens to meet difficulty in swallowing those feathers, another story. She, after he died, we all agreed. Flaws through which to view all the things you want in your house. Brass rings above the window.
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