Instead—Small, Rather Huddled and So On
for Eva Hesse
Why this pile of parts, the resin-soaked heads 
tightening? From her hands 

on air, the suggestion of body. I wander
in this room of spines, but leave 

them alone. Such guts: the presence of versus 
and peril. Against self-sacrifice she gestured, 

contoured. Against the silver in her head.
The rope, the line, absurd: a penis, then pink 

relief. I move around to find what’s left:
smoothings and soft orbs. Her careless 

hasty hand. It’s done. I am unanchored. 
Nineteen repetitions, wan,

translucent. Nothing less is meaningless. 
Lapped with wax or liquid latex, cheesecloth, 

rubber. From her hands, the gathered 
moods. Her resin, tube-like, glowing. And now, 

the sun pierces a small window because 
sometimes we need defenses. I let it parse 

and wait a little longer. All the surfaces keep 
kneeling, standing. Holy, hollow,

dossing down. When I close my eyes, 
the pieces reconnoiter, occupy the grieving

room. Her forms are shaded 
in their seam and volume. Each time, 

she climbed to what is meaningless
and gave it flexion. Is it refusal to accuse 

the eye of what it’s doing, adding 
life to puckers, to the flaying folds? 

Each time, she must have laughed,
then dripped discharge and aberration.
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