The Forger Recalls Her Dreams
Last night another set of stairs emerged as if to simulate some guiding hand. In fact the brain’s the boss of versions. It drains all danger from the daylit thing, invents a subterfuge that soothes. All night she died, and then again. Then she became my mother, who’s long dead. I tried to hold her carefully. I brushed her hair. The stuck projector splits the scene to stills until the film gets singed. Meanwhile, off camera, more copies from the copier spew, each slightly less decipherable, though the selling agent sotto voce says: Let’s pretend this one’s unique.