A slow-burning prairie grotesque. On the grounds of a rural sanitarium, three young women search for wellness, as a cult leader seeks to control their bodies through labor and daily rituals.
Nails in the Jaw—secreted from the lip—bitten from the mind. They eat from the pot—brewing their purged longings— sweltering from the heat—water trickling down their finger tips, into a puddle around them. The pool forms--sinking underneath. -Emily Irvine
