dove tender_square frontal lights illuminate the drone of the dressing room. curtain is calling. the ladies offer their faces to the mirrors, and you paint as they do, the bristles of a fat, flat brush slathering white paraffin across your face. your colours run; streaks of red mar the ivory of every stroke. you mix pigments to arrive at albedo, but wavelengths can’t create the absence you need. the room empties and you’re alone, starting at the skin you’re in, unflinchingly. you reach for the cell phone that belongs to a woman named after a pearl; she is divorced and embraces her son and daughter on digital wallpaper. you can’t apply the exaggerated mask to your face and time’s hands hold you like a sieve, sifting. she tells you to lather with wash branded for a bird in order to begin. 220926 what's it to you? who go blather from