REBECA ALDERETE BACA
POEMS A STRING
Where we are, a water cup is filling, there is a bell; a string is being pulled from the ceiling. It is from a cloth up there and the separation is simple and lingering. Lingering as individual pieces of pulp feel, being separated one from the rest. The cloth is not stapled, it could come down covering us, and everything else. It is black and tightly knit in a pattern, taken from some museum case, the most tensile metal heavy over us so when it falls we will be able to see nothing and we will fall too and people around us will want to call out to us, say our names, yell them sharply as we fall, as if we made our own spectacle.