Gallery

she is hanged,
her back sports d-hooks -
big suckers;
and wire twisted practically with my bare hands
keeps her from falling
i can offer no more support.
This performance she will,
perhaps,
never see for herself;
if she does
she will read her story
on the card neatly stuck beside her;

she will read her story
at the same time
she may hear my sob
which escaped in paint,
charcoal,
words scrawled through the lines;

if she does
may she recognize
without insult
the hooks through her flesh;
walk away
leaving them on the wall.