by Lindsey Webb
He takes in one hand a large grey realm of linen,
slightly rough. To the woman standing far across he
holds it up, or pushes, tightens. Across the room
she, looking gray, feels slightly rough—stretched
along the bias. No one sees her move. He lays it
down her back and folds it in at her stomach; she
appears to recline, look away, then fall—sharp
edges—inside, taking it with her, growing inward
like a bud.