excerpt tender_square the window is a guillotine, poised to slice and scar, yet you drape your torso over the sill all the same. the scene behind its sash is disarray; an open suitcase heaves vintage dresses and peignoirs. you touch blush chiffon, a cascading river running through your fingers. there is a black and white photo in an ivory frame, shaped in the swirl of a butterfly’s wings. it feels cursed, a curio you are drawn to but shouldn’t be. you swear upon waking that it bore the image of your grandmother, younger than you, mechanically posed with her husband’s arms around her. they are clean-cut and innocent, seemingly pure and not yet separated by the razor’s edge that split them apart. you can’t remember if this is memory or invention. 220723 what's it to you? who go blather from