The Art Handler’s Daughter

He dropped,

stiff

 

in front of a new acquisition of

contemporary decoupage.

 

The piece was mediocre.

 

She was wearing

a shoelace tight

 

around her neck,

he used to say What,

 

is that holding

your head

in place?

 

And he said it

and said it

and he said it.

 

Her arms grew

into a frame. His

collarbones,

a frame.

 

The hole

in the dirt.

 

She wore

his plastic work gloves

to shake hands

with the strangers.

 

Sweet

girl. Mostly

what they said is

Sweet girl.

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