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.