The Bastille child is a hull of steel. An artist wrapped in tin-foil. Dr. Heather-Bigg, author of Nell: A Tale of the Thames as well as a text on the general principles of the treatment of spinal curvature, was also an expert in noses and could bend an obstreperous cucumber back to the ruler-line of nature. Imprisoned, down to her ankles, the curtains moved (inconsequential to another child but monumental to her) disappearing mom and co. Youth was always crooked; think of Alexander Pope as a boy. Pope was her legs, arms, ears, spine, nose, and mind. With a forehead to communicate with the entire universe. What She (Nature) had intended, Edie thought, was something more liquid for her poets: a single raindrop running off the Monarch’s  wing.   It  is  as  if,   in  the

future, she will have no body. For now however, and at the side of this Bastilled organ in question, she sniffed the residue: rain, snow, and sleet. Thus turning a nose very firmly into the air was also climbing the Andes with a new spine (pen for conquering the past). The poet can never believe the body’s betrayal, hence language or the need to jabber to the air. At night these excruciating joys such as her mother’s head encased in a locket.