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They have scurried to their moment, this botched alignment
Of the stars & planets. Mother is eye through slat,
Half-mask, shard of mouth, an Indiana Cubist.
The lab, the calico, Burns unsteady on the chair back.
She props them all, a juggler stasis-ed on a unicycle,
Dress spilling over chair legs, the Oriental’s
Snaking figurations & rosettes—both parallel
& askew, depth uncertain, the formal
“studio effect” that Mother planned
Disheveled as Burns’s spiky pudding bowl.
Salome the cat’s a feline blur, head pendulumed
& poised to spring back to the feral present
Mother labored mightily to still.
A handprint framed in ochre, quickened on a cave wall.
Introduction
Something of Us to Prove Our Afterlife: Notes on “Ochre”
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements