( a new collaboration. words by anon, new york. it remains personal)
artwork -sonja benskin mesher. wales.
You were delivered by mail yesterday
aired out all the way from the UK
customs stamped as fabric and hand printed,
neat and thoughtful and delicate, “SBM”.
I’m reminded that you are a gift, package
bubbled and fine string double wrapped with all the trouble
of hands meant to rethread the openings in space that
do not exist. You do, and you are not found on the inside,
you are the wrapping and the shipping and packing
and worn box and the perfectly placed
loose safety pin within.
I cannot open it with my inept thumbs,
eight shaky other fingers, and a mind that lost its breath.
The art in this is context and content alike,
like affect and effect between the sheets
and shades and skin and light. She will
open it as new, feeling for keeps
the same attention and care
the title of the piece demands
I close the box trying to preserve what
I had nearly undone. I can’t. My K will
know the difference and call me out for
- “You retied that string didn’t you”. Of
course I did, I thought it was, but you are art
and I neglected in my rummaging it wasn’t.
Or was it?
And that is the appositeness of us.
Art and string and parchment and pins
and red human intersections and an empty box
with clichéd words on top, finding a non-place
where needle tips and threads
have no fabric or skin to sew
or souls to mend.
anon. new york.