You could imagine that a shudder rippled through the crowd as they watched the LANCE pierce the side of the bull. Bright bits of red dotted the dirt. Lit only by FLAME from sconces around the temple, the scene had an unearthly quality. The painting conservator leaned in, cautious and careful with her touch. Another FLAKE of yellowed varnish drifted to the floor. She had already removed a good portion of the smoke and dirt. The colors of the FLARE in one corner of the painting had already brightened. She was quite unsure why she had been hired – that is to say, she was very good at her work, but why on earth put this much effort into restoring some 19th century fantasy about pagan rituals, especially one painted by an obscure artist. It was truly an unusual situation. And she had yet to meet the person who had hired her. All communication had been through a third party. She shrugged,
knowing that she should just be grateful for the job. But she couldn’t shake the sense that something was off about this whole thing.

Georg’ann

Occasionally I feel the SHAPE of my mother’s face
inside my own.
Sensation at a muscular level,
of her DNA within my own.
The insistence of neurobiology, micro mirroring,
muscle memory is a bittersweet marvel.

Other times I’m more aware of being inside a mask,
feeling the boundary of myself stopping
at the border where skin encounters
an impenetrable surface-
fear bonded with BLAME.

Layers FLAKE, dissolve
in solutions of solitude, moments of awe.
I’ve learned how to send up the FLARE
calling to me those people whose faces
develop different muscles within my own.
Maybe even change my DNA.

Heather