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Jan 112014
 

by Rebecca Ricks

 

You talk today of centers and circles

and sutures. Every moment has

already been performed, such that

the sacralization of icons is

a serial murder. And yet

you still perform a long arm

feat, stitching across the

tattered quilt that is your life.

You say I am the suture.

You say I am the thread,

smoothing over the cancerous

lesions that run up each arm and

metastasize. Keep it bouncing,

you add carelessly.

You cannot restore the truth

beneath the performance.

The performance

is the truth.