It sensed my face,
knew I watched spellbound by
its confusion—its pain,
absorbed and defining a nightmare existence.
“Slip,” a fiberglass sculpture
shaped like an engorged “S”
through a looking glass . . .
Eyes blinking top and bottom,
vulgar vertical lips breathing sighs,
“Wow-wow; low, low, low, low.
Oh no! Oh no! Where did you go?”
gave form and measure—
meaning to its multimodal essence,
across the museum:
Grieving, foreboding, apocalyptic.
no eyes, mouth, nostrils—just
Skin draped with cascading black hair.
Unpainted, like an unfinished manikin
Maria could only imagine how
“Slip” appealed to all senses.
Like an abstract conversationalists,