An empty scallop shell counter-poses a sprig of dried lavender. A kestrel, loving testament to the taxidermist’s art, perches vigilant on a branch. A creature, half a million years gone, turned to stone. Maybe it was a gorgon who saw her own reflection in a pool.
The hip bone connects to the ankle bone. It’s uncomfortably easy to believe there might be a space for a basilisk.
I shift my weight awkwardly, unable to tear myself away from the curator’s model universe.
You can’t capture running water in a bucket. In a bucket it’s still.