// Sarah Borror
Silverware lines the table as sentries. They rattle. To diagnose the cause, I place glass
from glass to weaved cloth. Toss my hair into a bun. For equilibrium, Each piece of us,
of earth, must feel centered. But my face is peeling and you are sick steel, asleep in a cell.
The sharp furnace squeak harps at my spine. My fingers need rest, unraveling weeks of
spite and wire. Harnessing clouds, to transform knives into gems, forks into carbon.
All I muster today is tin and dropcloth. I cover and mute the vibrations, toss my hair off
and flesh. Fingers fall off as spoons.