different mold


    Clay stretches over the styrofoam


    store model head, like cheap surgical gloves


    snapped over doctor’s hands, giving birth


    to thick lips and defiant brows, a proud


    forehead and two hills below sightless eyes.


    My thumbs dig ridges into her cheekbones,


    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    extra flesh stripped off, a savage sacrifice


    to the pugmill gods for future resurrection.


    She stares out at me until I seal her eyes shut,


    encasing my fleshy fears as she enters the kiln.


    Adorned with a mountain range of gears


    raising from her forehead like a mechanical crown.


    1950° F. She is sweating, becoming stone—


    now a mangled corpse on an altar of clay.


    Her eyes lying beside her nose, a cheekbone


    resting in a premature grave. But there she is again,


    ashy white as though recovering from a sickness


    but unbroken, a techo queen, crown untouched.