She removes her velvet rope coat
She sinks, deep in her unlamentable curves
She concentrates
Turning rock solid, turning to ice
Her river stone eyes roll under their lids, cold capped treasures
Her body, becoming the black chair
Her arms resting still, her smile pearly fake
No one is going to say “what’s your name, baby”
Nobody’s going to try to strike up talk
Observe, don’t comment
This woman is a sculpture of found items
Her rose twig ankles, crossed like she’s shackled right there
Her chicken feather bones, fused in a bonsai pose
Her dandelion seed skirt, knit tight to the cloth seat
Welcome to the opening
Andra Land is a writer, currently living and working near the New Jersey shore. Her work appears in print and online publications. Land is writing her first novel.