The Widow's HomeThe spider has redecorated, painting the walls with silver tapestries. Dust tarnishes and silver becomes grey. Holes in the plaster have been stitched up, and doorways have been woven into lace curtains. The widow moves lightly along the floor, four pairs of feet leaving tracks in the grey snow. The thick fuzz covering the the floorboards breeds hares. The lop-eared balls of matted fur race each other each time the shutters open, and roll to a stop when the shutters bang shut. The wind is their checkered flag. It lives here too, the wind. Occasionally mimicking residents of the past as it screams into the chimney and shrieks against the weather vane, whispering rumours into the eaves; he died here you know, the lead pieces sliced straight lines through him and into the air, lines that connected him to the wall. That’s where the lead is now, all six pieces crumpled snuggly in the plaster of the living room wall. The spider has tried to cover them up, the holes. Vain attempt
Unofficial PhotographerI can see you through my lens so clearlyenclosed by the glass casement of your windowalthough you do not see meas you lay your head upon your pillow.Enclosed by the glass casement of your windowpale blush of skin reflected in your mirroras you lay your head upon you pillowdrawing plush coverlets around you as you shiver.Pale blush of skin reflected in your mirrorI want to trace my fingers along the curves of your neckdrawing plush coverlets around you as you shiveraching to brush skin against skin.I want to trace my fingers along the curves of your necklistening to your breath hitch in your throataching to brush skin against skinreading you the letter that I wroteListening to your breath hitch in your throatwhen the spider steps of unease creep across your backreading the letter that I wrotecold sweat on your palms, muscles tightening from their drowsy slack.When the spider steps of unease creep across your backI like to capture this image of you on the silver hali
The StripTake itoff;turn your mindto the curves,the muscles grippedby a sheen of sweat.He is coveredby the smallest piece of fabric;She is veiled.Watch the dance,the song punctuated by cheers;feeling it pulsatingto the beat;Gyratingin a cheap imitation of a manin uniform.Pupil-dialating movementson stagebringing the crowds to their feet.The show;they paid to see this.On the Strip,watch on.The strip,the show,bringing the crowds to their feet.On stage,pupil-dialating movements;in uniform,a cheap imitation of a mangyratingto the beat.Feeling it pulsating;the song punctuated by screams.Watch the dance:She is veiledby the smallest piece of fabric.He is coveredby a sheen of sweat,the muscles gripping tothe curves;turn your mindoff;Take it.
TuesdayThe girl had been eatenby a pink tree branch,savagedby a jeweller’s eyeglass.Without sullying the weedsshedied in a hole in the upper floor.Her feet squelching,rotting,she dried up.The neighbours divided her into pieces:a finger,a shin bone,an elbow,until there was nothing left butsoft,white,rain.
Into the Bellies of the Eloquent EliteShe had snatched her hand back so abruptly at his touch. He had paused to appreciate the gentle curve of her neck before he’d asked for her business card. She had avoided all eye contact as she’d fumbled for the small glossed rectangle of card stock, dropping it hastily into his outstretched palm to avoid further contact. It had been tucked carefully in his breast pocket. He had gathered up the paper bags full of produce after thanking her—politely—and taking his leave. She had mumbled a garburated string of syllables before turning to greet the next customer in line with a smeared on smile. ***On the kitchen counter, adjacent to the espresso machine, there is a rolodex. His long fingers flick deftly through the alphabet