Like the even space between two things to look out from + a series of bored holes in the struck language we put up to our faces, such are the mean and intentional swearings we cast as prayer, cast as pull, hook as lip, bill as spell. If you punish your name enough it will grow. The box is never quite small enough to take thought and sound out from its interior. I watch the blade-light wood grow its sayings and from below the woman on the ladder looks like an extension corded to the plug of her brush – double-handed and drawing the pale shapes down into something she’ll pronounce with hushes pressed between. No exotic flower on the tongue, just the fret of age and wearing a name not hers outward skinned like this.