I twist in my mechanical eye
To the stave's grooved peg.
Then- stretch out the three legs,
Pulling them tall and
Spreading them strong & stable.
Check the light and gauge the depth.
A lifeless figure to substitute,
To stand in as needed,
Absent of breaths to
Avoid
Fidgeting.
Everything comes into focus--
The fine lines, and
Curvature, of
The cadaver.
It is almost perfect,
A landscape [waiting]
For its tree,
Or a play anticipating
The lead's entrance.
Where is the warm body
With monochrome painting,
(the exception of those
verdant green eyes, and
occasional pink lips)
With the gun cocked,
Read to aim-
[I step in.]
Cool & composed,
I take a deep breath.
With eyes closed,
To prepare & avoid a
Faulty blink.
Not a moment they are opened
That the black ballon is
Squeezed.
The small box clicks, and then
Crunches
Its twisting eye lids shut.
-much later-
I soak it in.
The frame;
The captured evidence of my being.
I accept myself.
All of myself.
Everything to appreciate.
I become acquainted & pleased
In knowing
My oldest friend.