Runcible Spoon

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The distended shadow I cast

crawls up the walls of buildings

and looms over the cityscape unseen.


The focused likeness of me fractures

in long-exposure and I become absent

in the final gelatin silver print.


The fingerprints I leave in books

and the lipstick smeared on cups

are wiped before I’ve left the room.


And so I shrug off my blouse,

step out of my skirt and shoes

and make you look and see.


I use a hairpin to unpick

the lock of a display cabinet

in the city’s central museum.


I pull out the taxidermied foxes

that are dressed in waistcoats

and mice that are playing poker.


I crush my limbs into the cabinet,

my feet rammed against the sides

and my hair trailing on the tiles.


With my eyes wide and watchful

and my teeth bared in a snarl

I make you look and finally see me.