is not. What you think. It never is. She is here. In front of me. Now.
Upside down. The hanging (wo)man. Hanging. From her name. Her elbows.
Adhere. To a flat plane. Her head. Is hanging. In turn. From the ends
of her fingers. Her skin. Indents surprisingly. At those meeting places.
She is old. Her mouth is thin. Her skin is thin. Her hair. Is thin, dry
and brittle. Her eyes are thin. But. Gleaming, blade-like, compressed.
Slits of ineluctable seeing. Piercing seeing. Through all. Everyone. She
is. An old woman. (Still) fucking the world. The word. Doing. Undoing.