Molly waits 4


And now a new voice enters the room. She listens as the stream of consciousness flowing from his lips enters her head, prepares her, assures her… She surrenders as he whispers…

The rope ends here at your flesh, tucked pinching-ly past the soft hairs of your wrist and tugged through again to wrap past the macramé confection of your compressed secret circle dented flesh. Breathe in as twined cording pulls up backwards unkimbo arms levering shoulders forward, lifting, bending chest to now felt compressions as ribs flex to belly. The strings end here in your chest as the movement of breath shallows from lack of space losing the O of 2 possible depth available. Focus, breathe, wrap rope again tighter as lack of breath becomes center, nothing else matters as world gets small and tight, so tight snugged flesh now connected by new dry ligaments of feather woven fiber. Breathe, tension becomes another place to live, torsion being all as shoulders rotate slowly loosened muscle fibers stretch to accommodate a fledgling lift into space. Lose yourself in reflection according to others, Narcissus bound in angel’s finery the pressure to breathe moves again as fiber tugs you into a new animal shape unknown but to you and others who fly. A Fugu of tingle becomes your fingers, knowing loss of control and hopeful of recovery nerves begin a death flirt as toes begin a gravity dance on ground, wanting to stay but losing each battle feet reach for other purchase a hopeful bound monkey-toe grip elsewhere. Focus breathe tingle fly fine creature of new fashioned flesh. Be free in fiber locus – the rope ends here, somewhere here, near your spirit.

-Text by Robert Morgan, introduced by Molly, photo by W. Merganser

~ by Molly Montrevoir on December 13, 2006.

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