when she leaves for work the morning looks like a commotion. he
gets out of bed & looks at the wall where a mirror should be.
instead of a reflection, he is shadow. there is a razor & a mason jar
& for a shadow, he is not famous. yesterday was between the toes.
today will be the back of the neck. he lay himself on the kitchen
table like he is made of gravity. she is an audience in another city.
hanging off the table, his head is perpendicular to the mason jar. it
will only be a small gash because art is important, but not valuable.
the morning is misshapen & he is holding a razor. he budgets a
small line across the back of his neck, an incomplete barcode. the
mason jar collects each drop. once full, he seals the mason jar &
stores it with the others. his refrigerator is a mausoleum of liquid
ruby. he calls the work, “no use for blood, until you return.” he
never wanted to become an artist, but each day, she asks him to.