text by Claressinka Anderson

She is trickster,
moving towards a 
beguiling destruction,
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 stone spider web,
inching delicately across the tightrope.

She ascends the stairs to shower 
in a velvet bathroom, hair woven 
to luminous skin—

 a pulsing body wrapped in burnt paper,
glowing on black waves.  

Outside her window there is only night. 

You cannot enter 
(come in) touch her, 
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?
You might find it here,
setting over a draped horizon.

Minimalism—
such beauty breaks the heart a little.