Wide Angle

cindy 16
The waiting
wasn’t anything new.
It was the open spaces,
the promise of breathing room,
which was eerily unfamiliar.
She catalogued
what she had packed,
and what she had left behind,.
while assuming the burden of distance
to match the dimming caliber of twilight.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)

 

 

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Living Room

cindy 15
It had become a question of values,
and proper arrangement.
She had burned with a nightly longing
to know
the deathly stillness
of essential props,
as if life
was in the market
for high-end
interior models
to place first.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)
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Floe

cindy 14
A tableaux of modern gothic,
modeling the claims of dying light–
To go gently, or to rage
within a facade of ice?

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)
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What Dreams May Leave

cindy 13
Her dreams
possessed the symmetry
of a sorrow
undisclosed
to the dreamer
who borrowed her body
to model alleged reality.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)
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Sight-Line

cindy 12
Did you want a bitch,
or a super-heroine?
Or perhaps just a mop
and bucket for sticky linoleum,
for hangovers that crawl
into high-rise offices?
Whatever it is you want
or need,
forget me,
I’m not the “it”
tagged in your game–
I claim me as my own,
sister to the shapeless wind
which calls me away
and further away still,
toward the raw
and permeable unknown.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)

 

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Shelf Life

cindy11
Perhaps he was right,
and God did wear bi-focals–
Fiction left her cold.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)
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No Looking Back

cindy 10
It had been a long hard winter.
Discontent
brewed and bubbled
like witches tits
in a seething cauldron.
She had decided
once and for all
to fuck spring
right between the eyes
with the last of her husband’s
whittled pride.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)

 

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Curiouser and Curiouser

cindy 9
Letter from Wonderland–
Dear Miss So-and-So,
Your husband injured himself
chasing a young girl
in fuzzy pink rabbit ears
down a dark narrow hole.
Do not expect him home
any time soon.
Yours Truly,
A Secret Admirer.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)
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Homesick

Untitled Film Still #27 1979, reprinted 1998 by Cindy Sherman born 1954
It had been
a night to forget,
many were.
She blamed
the moon,
because it was there,
a mocking bauble
belonging to someone else’s idea
of munificent and festive.
The scraping
at the back of her brain
would stop any second now
any second
and give way
to a tented settling
and fade.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)
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Still of the Night

cindy7
She thought about it
at least once
every night.
What it would be like
if he wasn’t there,
if she, with delicate blankness
befitting a housewife,
mixed his cocktail in a new way,
a different way, just once,
then watched him slip
into an absence
that didn’t require faith
or tending.

 

(Photo by Cindy Sherman)
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