Traces

The gift of the woman is that she comes from a series of alcove

fires

in a tangle of flowering. The gift of the man is that

he knows

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

how clear

I was being. Here are the handprints of the woman as she presses

and folds

her body to the ground. Here is the time it takes for the chicken

to stop

its live signalling and know where it comes from. Hands, feet, fire, colour,

vision,

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

then rose

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 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

away.

In life I flamed and scratched and I wore the taunting mask when we drank and

the truth

is I loved him. He was larger than me and what he made on the gallery floors

cast all

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.