The
gallery’s a maze, crowded
with
originals, prints and fakes.
I
spend my life slowly pacing out
the
rooms, manoeuvring among
bodies
hung along invisible rails,
and
it seems to me that trapped in each
frame
of flesh are attempts at expressing
the
life all of us in our bones know is
outside
the exhibition –
each stroke of clothing,
pose
and gesture a wave of sadness
collapsing
unspoken on the concrete –
and
as I pause to take it all in
I
hear the sound and feel the world
of
tears crashing at my ankles.
The
heart panics at the sight,
tugs
at its wet red leash.
The
sterile air here…
something isn’t right.
At
the weight of us,
the
hooks strain,
the
walls are torn.
