Sarah Katz

Self-Portrait with Mysticism

The office expresses the evening’s encroachment. The lamp shines two faces on a wall, desperate to butter the room with its light. Ants inch in from the crooks, led by somatic consensus, laced with intimations of light, penciled onto the wooden floor. I always thought I feared you, especially your sudden black hair and rangy, fleshy limbs. My own skin traumatically hairless. You leave me as quickly as you arrive, past the desk-leg, and onto somewhere else. The air conditioning’s talk compressing the room into a stone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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ISSUE 96
Not Even Playing

 

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