The subject heading says look, and when I do, I click on the folder named Files, and inside it, Undergrad, and inside it, Beowulf to Chaucer, and inside it, Paper 1, and inside it, Notes. I drag the photo there.


Your hair falling over your eyes wide open, your hair can barely hide them. What do you want from me? the look says. Or, more accurately: What do you want from me.


The eye directed not at the face but the mouth, not the mouth but the sound that escapes it, the sound swallowed up by the belting of the guitar, track five, circa speeding down the highway to the beach, eleven years old, uncle yammering about the cost of cement and labor for the new room, still unbuilt, for the baby, still unborn.


Before the temperamental streaks of light on the carpet. Before the ants lined up on the sill. Before the stuttering wires, the poker-faced dog, the crumbs on the pillow, the palm against the lens.


Your face in between the thighs wide open, minus hands, minus breasts, minus note to self, minus moment of weakness, minus mouth in the shape of the sound that escapes it.

I fill in the blank:

I fill in the blank:

I fill in the blank: One of three.