-
Inventory

The Adam’s apple in old photographs,a hard comma in the throat’s soft sentence. Shoulders built for a doorwayyou never meant to walk through. The particular wrongness of a swimsuit,size medium, women’s,purchased with shaking handsand worn like a confession. A binder’s compression at 6 a.m.,ribs remembering all daywhat they were flattened for. The five-o’clock shadowrising like…
