《一印毛》/ “One Prest Cent”

The disk shines bright pink on one side and dull, dark, muddy brown on the other. Abraham Lincoln’s face is blocked by a bar of negative space; his tie and collar likewise fall to a crevasse. The black twine that’s looped in a cow hitch knot tugs tender on the floor of the Memorial; each step generates gentle prodding to the centre. 

Again, the penny shines on the bottom, the side without the string. The patina, the rust, the rot and decay wiped away by a continual repetitive motion. Nothing else stands capable of preserving a glistening luster on the coin. The inside of the cross builds up dust and debris and detritus and dermis, requiring meticulous restoration when the task is at hand. 

E PLURIUN it says. E PLEURON I believe it means. Out of the rib it means. Creation, from dirt and grime comes sculpture and clay, the protection of a beating heart, out of One, one, one. LIBER it says. Free it means. Free He makes us, free He made us, free to be tethered, bound, tied not by the chains we forge from our thoughts but the red thread we never chose, not once. 

The thread parts the words: In || We Trust. Trust we dole out sparingly, yet beg for trust, faith, nigh constantly. Trust we ought give in moments of peace and order, often, repeatedly, ritually, in order to clean from the encrusted exteriors, whispering, praying, hunched over a piece of copper rubbing for luck, no, for charm, no, for Providence. Fingers rubbed raw, bright pink, from constant yearning and searching and wrestling. Give to Augustus, to 弘治, to Abraham what belongs to him; Give to God what is His.