Boundary Groove

Frame first. The wood decides. Pirogue planks, edges chewed by salt. I follow each warp with the blade. The frame is never quite square. Everything after: paper, scored with the point, wax dragged into the grooves. Pastel dust finds its own rule, pooling dark in the cut channels, refusing others. I walk to the sea wall, hear three languages before I reach the boundary line. Chalk, bare foot, a shirt striped like a flag. The lines on the paper break where the wood won’t let them pass. Not a mistake—just what happens when you build around what’s already bent. Boys call to each other, quick and uneven. The sun hits the powder, makes the boundary gleam—then slur. I watch the mark run right up to the wood, get stopped, start again. Every groove, every drift, is a decision I didn’t make. That’s the cost. Always starting from what’s already changed.