In the avalanche of shameful livery assembled from colonial centuries

it is necessary to undress —

I remove my mother’s ermine-trimmed coat, my brother’s sugarloaf hat, my grandmother’s
pomegranate gown with the gold-embroidered sleeves, my father’s suspenders and blue jeans, my
ruched veil, high-tops, and striped wool socks.

To detonate this ode, this pain in baroque fog

I unlace my bodice —


We stand naked before a warship sprawling on dry ground.

You begin to dress (white silk slip, white cotton shift), telling me about a distance (of centuries,
continents, blood) that ruffles thought as if tickling it. Then pricks and burns it.

I try to think of a way to organize distance not as time or desire or will, but as a style of living we
might call elation or damage —

You wear white, honour what distance dissolves.

Eternal whim, lurch monument, the avalanche exposes the mechanics of rejection, devaluation,
dehumanization —

Dehumanization is an ugly word for an ugly concept.

Ugly has its own necessity. Like existence.


Like the cold, which renews itself when morning’s paramount pleasure disappears, hammering open
the absolute, splintering it into acts of being —


As the world arrests the world. A sentence that means almost nothing.

Almost interests me.

Like how, despite history, we keep falling in love with the world.