Maria Porges, ‘Shortest Story 22’, 2016, Tayloe Piggott Gallery

Brett thinks that broken glass looks like ice, sparkling in the dull grey midden of knee-deep trash and smelly dirt that surrounds the house. The pointed shards are so pretty and bright in the morning sun. There is one clean spot on the grimy window, and he likes to sit on the floor and put his eye to that little hole of light. It could be a peephole in a fence around a field of diamonds. A telescope, revealing distant stars; a wormhole into suspended time-- since no ice would last but a moment, in the sweaty, wet-blanket heat of summer in this place. But he knows nothing of these things, having only rarely set foot outside these walls, where three kids live alone without help or harm.

About Maria Porges