text by Claressinka Anderson Pugliese
Her fabric ensnares you
in this velvet house
She is trickster,
moving towards a
steady with restraint -
a dancer poised for collapse,
each perfect limb folding in on itself.
She wears a corset of cement,
her pointed toe balanced on a spider web of stone,
inching delicately across the tight rope.
Ascending the stairs,
she showers in the bathroom,
a hair woven through luminous skin.
A boundary here,
between what is seen and not seen –
a pulsing body wrapped in burnt paper,
glowing on black waves.
Outside her window there is only night.
You cannot enter,
touch her and you’ll find she’s smooth,
run your finger along her origami moon,
caress her absent cheek.
A folded sphere -
is there such a thing?
Perhaps you will find it here,
setting over a draped horizon.
such beauty breaks the heart a little.