she peels pistachios in the kitchen.
traces hinges with crescent nails
releases the nuts from their shells and
drops the pieces into two bowls.
she is a ticking clock.

what becomes of the jesters
who forget to wash off their paint
she wonders. do they sleep
stuck inside out like upturned cockroaches.
leftover crumbs of laughter
overlooked on china plates burst
buttons and spill from her veins.

she doesn’t remember when it happened
the ecdysis. she hangs
in the air like a naked soul
a letter addressed to no one.
it reads. life ventriloquises death.
figures bloated with pockets of absence
evade the chafing of chains.

her walls breathe like music machines
bellows tamed. flat-eyed carcasses dance
on puppet strings. the taxidermist’s practical joke.
molluscs are emptied of saltwater eddies.
pistachios scurry from their shells.
she is the flesh clinging
to dust bones.