Flail of crinoline licking her crooked knees, she moves like she swallowed a midwinter whiteout—the kind that harmonized with her newborn wails, an imploring geminus who played games with the lights and touched the story with shades of blue. From the corner, I tend the stereo and watch. She clambers through dimensions in half an eight-count, limbs nimble and sure as arrows, sculpted. Feet, bare, pound parquet floors—yet nothing yields, nothing puckers. Nothing is so treacherous as sweat, combing paths over her angles and matting brittle hair. She sees—knows—what her art has done. Chaos is the highest mantra, and soil remembers the storm. I'm scared to touch between her shoulders. Trembling apparatus of sinew and spinal pearls. Scared to cede to her earnest gravity, tumble into the space between matter—into the screaming elsewhere, blue like an umbilical scab, like a warning.