Strings on limbs to dance, a lolloping, erratic trot, arms aflutter, eyes of cobalt staring straight ahead. Wherever her head turns, falls. Man using as wife, but no steel ring to bind. Scissors poised – ready to snip. Three seedlings, chipping away. Strives to carve perfection, breaking in the process: recreating a mother’s failure. Mother, riddled with woodworm criticism, gnawing for love. Drawing it out like tearing silk from a spider’s womb. Father, an absent ghost – still haunting, tangle of lies to confuse, question. Judgement, memories, fiction?
This way, that way, each string pulls, strain on hinges, creaking limbs.
Smiling her painted on smile, she offers out her wrists.