there is rice in between the fork, the flavors removed from the spoon, only a drop of water to quench the thirst, and yet i can’t describe this plate. it’s neither clean nor dirty. it’s found a medium, happy? who knows? it was hardly a banquet, though a gauntlet of spices was enough.

half warm, half cold, this chair.

serving its purpose, taking notes of this body’s contour.

back, hunched.

TENSE. EVERYWHERE. TENSE.

l o o s e d

by the
memos,
memoirs,
memories

of her clavicle.