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My fish-eyed brush caught my hair in a fistful of undoing. I’d become somebody else’s home. The things I was […]
My fish-eyed brush caught my hair in a fistful of undoing. I’d become somebody else’s home. The things I was […]
Like they said in art history, it isn’t the object we see, it’s the light. Impressionism and calotypes. Try to
Light rises out of my wrist like a raptor above the surface searching to peel away the skin’s orange surface.
The women in my family paint their lips red in a school teacher’s correcting pen. My mother’s lips circled brightest.
He loves these make-believe moments in the morning when everyone pretends to forget the night before. His wife, June,
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