May 2023

To begin as whole, an element of nature: spectacular silver—now shredded//clawed//minced— serves as a garnish to the spectacle of holidays. Holy days overlooked by flimsy silver spires flapping in the breeze, whose hearts of ember pierce the still-falling, stifling snow. Holy days whose garb is a boa of metal, a festive homage to the knights consigned to death by holy war. Holy days that annually resurrect industrial caterpillars with an invocation to garrote green trees. Holy days for which the convocation of caterpillars crafts a cocoon of light. Holidays, yes, but hold the “I,” for I am falling, falling into a holy daze. The gaiety of the tattered, prickly slivers of silver stains my skin, as I am laden with the shredding of what once was whole.