Sara Veglahn
Reading Lady
This is not behind the scenes. Grim solitude gleams in such shadows. A whisper of flesh. A mask made real. In the composition of a world, a face sees through what it can tell you. Books endure dangerous looks, like a bruise on the face, or from hands that hold faces caught together blackly.
Stained waiting, becoming all thumbs, symmetrical as lips. I am within she. Balanced, but nearly pitched forward. No sky but light from somewhere. Alone, the mask fuses slowly. A head on a head is no guarantee of understanding.
Here, the stage is set for exposure. A female kind of blue. I am a pattern fitting insect-like into where I am placed. Red crevice. Word flesh hidden. A lack of carnality illuminates itself into a dimmer light, into a stern chain of previous events.
It’s easy not to see such shattering enchantment, perhaps. Spots mark spots, lines lead out and towards. A bit of a bruise, this face beneath, caught onstage waiting in hushed, casual flesh. As if melting. As if in pieces. A body’s reaction to its edges.
This indeterminate past is passing before the book of tragedy in a primitive silence. Apart from the crowd, the clamoring audience is an interruption. The floor observes its angles. Locked and transfixed in a mute blue look-out. Solitude hands the face a mask. Paint another number to give me my blessing of faithlessness. A pale piece of marble is what I was meant to encourage. A little light shining beneath the beneath. I am an open end. An aftermath lingering. Follow me out of my cage and swallow. |
