I seek a peace in the world, watching from my time alone, thinking about the words I’m not writing. I sit, uncertain in myself. When was the last time I felt good in this space? I live for the questions I leave myself. In my otherness, the peace I look for is found in the mothers before me, the mothers I do not talk to, the mothers I reject, and the mothers who reject me. I am a body built of the otherness of a woman who cannot be a mother, an art left for another to transcribe. Before my brother was born, my mother would take me to galleries of her choosing, some she had designed, some she found interesting. There were some I understood, some I found boring, some we took down together. These summers were spent removing art with my mother from cold, white-walled rooms, leaving them with less, but leaving the air fuller. The last summer, there were the pencils. I remember this sculpture in perfect lighting, then recovering pencils about the house from lifeless corners. The pen...
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