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of eyes to open and close like a coffin but hides the
rest of her features; sometimes a black cape that ghosts her body, head to toe, so she can walk unseen in broad daylight. And sometimes in a flicker of moonlight, at the magic mirror, she can see the curvaceous outline of her vanity, the table of tricks of the trade, containers of paint that make parts of her invisible; that angle the rouged cheekbones, the line of lips, the echo of eyes in shadow. Sometimes she's the magician who erases herself. She presses wax to make an arc of her brow, presses more wax to make less of the hair 
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that warms
her pubis. She winds the bed sheets as if to suppress what slopes and curves without restraint, and with a dramatic flourish, as if she were always bound to be made less beautiful. Chelle Miko has published in the North American Review, Paumonock Review, and Moondance, and is working on her first screenplay. She writes from New York state.  |
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