Mindscreen

See, it’s a kind of crime scene, as if the mind were a dime novel, a scrim of need and semen, all cinder and siren, a dim prison where the miser dines on rinds of desire, and the sinner, sincere as denim, repeats Eden’s demise — that luckless toss of dice. Yet here at the rim of this demesne a mitigating mise-en-scène: a close-up of her mother stirring rice, a glass of sparkling cider, a mince pie spliced in — not to rescind or mend: what mind denies mercies mine in the end.