There is no title. There is no title. The body is content. The body is window.
The body is container, curtain, chair, grid. Do you see? Bones & shoulders, a spine
guiding the breath I can’t force to change what is real or unreal. Is it mine? Only air
a curated perception that troubles. My mother’s death flattening against the wall. I can’t
see my own face now—
the photograph ever now—
ever the repetition of memory—
I can’t see my own face
as I hold myself.