From the mezzanine, Mrs. Hooper fills her box
the way she filled a doorway — taking space
the air had hoped to keep. The paradox:
in situ, she commands the place.
Her brows — two bars, now laid to rest —
lie flat as twin reproofs of life;
her mouth, re-stitched, a hyphen east to west;
that ruler — Old Dominion — like a knife
laid straight across her chest. I find
my knuckles, trace the callouses — then look
again: the mouth — the brow — the mourners lined
in black: the cross — my kingdom for a book,
a pen — the lid swings down — and there: the mark.
A dash— I smile—I reach into the dark.