I Won’t Rehang It

The words hit me hot,

like Aunt Pam’s old iron.

Heated up by white coals,

in the old wood stove.

Kissing my stupid lips with news,

I fell back, deaf and dumb, through the bathroom door.

Reaching out, flailing arms, back going diagonal I searched for something stable.

My numb fingers curled around the shower curtain.

With each pop of the rings snapping I descended deeper into chilled, darkness.

Four months later and I’m still there.

Ice cold water splashing out from the shower, it’s repelled by my body and it drops to the floor.

Maybe I’ll slip and join him when I get out.


Laying on her stomach under the bed she held back vomit.
She worried her rapid breath was whipping around the house in big gusts of wind.
Could he hear her?
Slow, steady steps made their way up the stairs.
Was he heading to the bedroom?
Panicked she put her palm to her mouth.
Black loafers came into sight.
The bottom of the bed framing them against the white carpet, a square,
Like she was watching him on a television set.
He flipped off the switch and fell onto the mattress.
An hour passed, her tiny body under his.
She rolled out in one agile motion,
And hovered over him in an unmeasurable moment.
Drawing her knife she slit his throat,
Grabbed her duffle bag and started throwing his nicest things inside it.
She left through the back door and made her way to the shed
Where his wife had left her the cash.

Thea’s Cape

Among the deceased belongings that they leave behind are clothes. These possessions are usually passed down or sold. Garments seem so intimate, worn against the life filled body and move through the day to day life with the soul. They are an expression of style and shell for the body and soul. Shifting the cape’s context to an image I doubt the wearer ever imagined yet keeping intact itss origin through black and white nostalgic photography creates a synthesis and discourse that I feel is common in things left behind.