Caesura 2

Before Gabriela arrived            I was on a call 

with operations. 	The gallery door needed 

to be unlocked. 	I had to give 

the officer my identification,             prove

I belonged there.            In the atrium 

Lucia hid her face behind            a large frond. “This 

is Sparrow,”            Gabriela said, “she’s going to be

helping me for a while.” Lucia dropped            the leaf, 

“Your name            means bird,” she exclaimed. 

“Yes,” Gabriela said,             “and yours means light.”

Inside, Gabriela showed me             her materials, 

the dissolving            paper, the jar of mist, 

the many categories            of flowers. She calls 

the new works            “Leaves.” “ I think of it

like a record            or map,” she explained, 

painting with adhesive            a thin line 

down the edge             of a piece of paper, seaming 

it with another.             Lucia interrupted 

to hand me an invisible            triangular cookie 

she made on her magnetic            drawing board. 

“That’s delicious,”            I said, “Can I try 

a circular cookie?”            She blinked at me once,

bent down to the board,            grasped at the form, 

and brought her pinched fingertips            to my open 

palm. Gabriela scattered            the materials 

on the floor,            nail, orange peel, flower,

dropping them            from such a height that 

they arranged themselves. Then,            the seamed 

paper, laid out            as a sheet 		

on a bed. “It's like printing,            or photography,” 

she said, staring            into the paper 

turning gray            under the jar’s continual 

stream, yielding. “I understand.            In terms 

of what it does            to the moment,” I offered. 

“What?” She asked,            pulled 

from her focus,            a few drops of water 		

spilling from the nozzle.            “The moment?” I repeated. 	

“Right,”she said,            “the moment,” turning 	

her gaze            back to the paper. 

At the worktable,             I rubbed the image 

of leaves            onto paper with a graphite stick, 

cutting            out the shapes, feeling 

the outline            of the folded		

poem in my pocket.            Lucia stood 

too close to the piece            her red rain boots stamped

its wet border.            I watched Gabriela place 

the leaves I cut, mending            gaps. I want 

to have the world’s            life inside me 

but I don't,            not like that.