How the Invisible Enters the Picture

The orange room has no horizon.

Heat gathers in the wallpaper,
in the chair’s napped arms,
in the sweet, chemical dust
on the bowl’s metal lip.

A square fan crouches low,
caged and obedient,
its throat full of blades.

She slips one foot from the sandal
and lifts it to the thrown air.

Not a pose.
A measurement.

The ankle, freckled with lint;
the shin, glossed by summer;
the loose strap falling back
like a question the body declines.

Across the upholstery, corn curls
shed their powder.
A few have lodged where the cushion
keeps her shape.

Salt ticks in the fibres.

The fan does not cool the room.
It gives the heat a direction.

Years later, the photograph
will have lost the rattle,
the snack-salt smell,
the exact bite
of the strap at her shoulder.

It will keep only the orange,
the foot held level with the grille,

and that slight discipline:
skin near the machine
until nothing becomes touch.