Nat. Brut ARCHIVE
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THE CURATOR ON HER PORCH
by Andrew Ridker
I never named any of the thousands.
I only think of them,
my children in a stranger’s house.
I am unreliable.
My visual of the past is intact
and I can hold their numbers, materials
I appreciate your planning,
the tan slacks by the green door,
the solidarity of your shirt and shoes.
I realize my pink two-piece
may preclude a spirited discussion.
I’m not trying to be seductive.
I get wily in the summer
when there’s time to make.
Let me show you around,
tell me what you like
(take 1978, 1983--
there is a great deal missing in between.)
That’s how the trouble starts. Try to understand.
I am very close-minded and rather mean-
spirited. I am rude with underlings, my will
is invented, I take liberties.
Try to look less like you.
Sit more to the left.
You’re a part as well, and the fireflies
behind you. Sometimes I forget
you’re here, wondering what to do
with all this darkness
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(pr. nat broot) is a journal of art and literature dedicated to advancing equality and inclusivity in all creative fields.
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