December 2009
2 posts
Ana Mendieta, Flowers on Body, 1973
I spit pollen, fall silent.
Lying still, taming the violent
curves of (The body! Snow
in the heavy dream cocoon
of summer sweat. Absolute
and peeled raw) my being.
The stems of flowers writhe
between my legs, over my
white. The earth mother.
I clothe myself in petals
and weeds. The purpose is
reproduction, the construction
of soft fingertips (Little blooms!)
in this womb of time and...
revised.
Sekhmet, My Sphinx.
Her face was a revolution; the ebb and flush
of color. I miss the pits of her cheeks when she bared
her mad teeth in pleasant fits—yapping hysterics
when we used to somersault over each other at dawn.
She used to paint the shadows of daybreak on my arms: hieroglyphics
scratching the frail and raw flesh, raised in our rioting language.
Still, freckles glow brown on the...