the cold negative space
patient and yielding
paint and scrap
metal—fabric and—
charcoal lurch
from the drywall
my stomach flips
backward grabbing
at the base of my skull
grainy, sepia ink
the face of an old woman
scalloped flesh
pillows around hollow eyes
I lean into those eyes
collecting stories
clipped to strings
and in that moment
just before I am irretrievable
a hand expands
over the back of my shoulder
and guides me
on to the next room
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