I dream another me exists in the burning house, reading aloud from what I have written. Broken glass. A sad film. The awkward silence.
I had always thought night would feel like: an electric current, the most startling numbness in every fingertip. Throughout the landscape, a small fire would still be blazing.
But somehow in the dream I’ve grown wings. Tell me, does this change everything—?
I want to use them so badly, but I don’t know how—
In collaboration with poet Kristina Marie Darling
Cloth, wire, thread
26 x 26 in.
66 x 66 cm