The gift of the woman is that she comes from a series of alcove
in a tangle of flowering. The gift of the man is that
where he comes from. The mistake of the man is that he
thinks he knows.
When I dipped my arms in source colour and dragged them down the wall
I was being. Here are the handprints of the woman as she presses
her body to the ground. Here is the time it takes for the chicken
its live signalling and know where it comes from. Hands, feet, fire, colour,
shape, chicken, film. It takes a length of struggle for the wings to stop their beating
once the head is gone.
Here are the traces of the woman who scooped out the shape of her body
and took photographs. After I went out the window the women I had needed in life asked
Where is Ana Mendieta?
One man thought he knew what he had heard me say which was
no no no no. The truth is, the mistake of the man is that he disassembles materiality
storey by storey.
The gift of the man is that he tallies his bricks and pushes the source
In life I flamed and scratched and I wore the taunting mask when we drank and
is I loved him. He was larger than me and what he made on the gallery floors
kinds of shadows. But I was very clear. I dug my heels in and no one knows how
quickly I went
out the window. After we made love I covered his face. I covered his face
with my hands.