lucille michelle m. buchanan My shirt is tight, too tight for a warm day in March, in NY. Lucille's entire life was layed out in rooms everything priced with white tape. People waited in line to rape her possessions, grab what they could. They found her paintings in the attic a month before and galleried them out in the basement. How could she have been unknown? I don't know. I ran my finger along the edges of tables jewelry boxes and old books. Somewhere in that house she was looking through a hole drilled in the wall, just an eye shifting back and forth. I could hear her laughing at my shirt. I know I've outgrown it, Lucille. I know. I took a silver necklace, a bird in flight. For me. To remember someone I never knew. The rest is for sale, including this shirt.