IV. I leave the mess. Piss stains color paper, and cd cases crack under my heels. I put on nice shirts and look in the mirror. Two weeks later I carry the mess to the dumpster. I ask about
my blood in the jar. You say you poured it in the dirt. He says he misses seeing it in the fridge. I do not believe you.
I lie awake all night. My body fights to stay still like it fights to float in water. Get out, to the porch. Lay down my cheek on unfinished wood and watch the light come into the sky.
I will find a way back to you
Call your name. Call your number. Call your mother. Call. Swallow it. Drip rose water on my head, then around the room. Make a list. Stretch. Return, to the floor. Arrange a
grouping of rocks. Put the floor on my back and the book on my knees and hold her up.
V. until the mess no longer holds my attention and must be done away with.
I begin by making a mess
VI. A book of picture riddles
VII. Start with a pile.
VIII. I can only remember the presence of it. The outermost objects. Mostly papers. Twists of fabric. A wooden box stacked on something. A ball of foil in a clear plastic bag and a
string and the shape of a flash.
I tried to imagine the pile and what was inside/under the surface but nothing came to mind. The shape of the surface was a mound with uneven edges, like seeing your head
casting shadows. And all the silhouettes of strands, the hair blurred at the the crown.
IX. The shape of a flash. A special occasion. All the girls in white only. Small threads, intricate & tightly gathered. The person with pinched fingers goes with the needle through the
white cloth.
Finger pinches
Over over and and under under
And and over over and and under under
—Written by Mitra Vahdati, TESC ‘16. View more of Ashley Miller’s still life series at Caffe Vita through January 31 or at ashleymillerphoto.com.
