For Shelley Duvall

Again.

Every sweat-stuck strand is symmetrical on her hairline. 

Her throat is swallowed by a beige turtleneck.

The cherub nose is a masterpiece of hours in the makeup department

wept away. She drinks a swimming pool every day.

The camera prowls forward; she backs away, mouth fumbling

to fit around the next line, despite having already said it

one-hundred-and-twenty-five-fucking-times.

Again. 

She rounds the corner, steps like eggshell. Batter up, Shelley. Swing.

The baseball bat’s thicker than her forearms. She struggles to lift the damn thing.

After, she scoops up a toddler, sprints laps up and down hallways

and lands every step inside a hexagon. A fire axe of a man splits his sixtieth door,

and she’s sure to thank him for this opportunity, submit 

an apology for wasting his time.

Again.

Flashback to 1977: the final act of Three Women.

Fists full of miscarriage, you escape into the dusk.

Your grin swallows scenery. You fill the theatre

with dry, rasping laughter and the click

of your enormous teeth finding their place.

You are a wraith, crimson claws outstretched

towards the camera. Your doe eyes become headlights,

head crowned by the top of the screen

as you come closer and closer, surpass the camera,

never to be captured again.