the demons of
she talked of leading her brother around the museum,
through the coiled halls that ran maze-like
and slow. how he just wanted to see the good pieces,
the masterpieces. how, she told me later,
he walked past the exhibition that made her
want to stand still, eat paint, allow its hydrocarbons
to pigment her stomach lining. the demons of
james ensor, she said, didn’t phase him at all.
her twin, spawn of the same anorexic mother
who that night, ate spoonfuls of frosting at dinner,
drank heavy dark beer in elegant thistle glasses,
was more attracted to pollock. american gothic.
the pieces in which demons were paler,
and mute.