#163 – Woman Ninety


“even more political than the earlier one… Carving 45 Years Later depicts my belief that the older body is to be respected and admired.  After all, it made it!”

Eleanor Antin


(image and text from “Time’s Arrow” at LACMA)

#162 – Woman Eighty Nine


Her voice broke easily.

Sound cracked,
seeped out in
clicks and clacks
jig sawing
any true syllable that
otherwise could have
a thought.

Thick tears rolled off her
red skin and
pierced the surface of
the caramel colored coffee in
her cup,
the sweet liquid.

She drank up the warmth,
pushed the broken bits
of language back
down her throat.


#161 – Woman Eighty Eight


She lost her mind.

If the story was rewound

might she see where it had

fallen away,

been left behind,

temporarily misplaced?


If she held the film up to the light,

carefully scrutinized each frame,

could she perceive the past?


detect the nebulous shapes,

the semi-transparency,

the indescribable colors.


Or in another version,

it was obscured,

brittle, deteriorated,

never to be looped again.

#159 – Woman Eighty Six


She coughs up a sentence,

chokes out the description that’s

been bubbling in her throat lately.


Low, it remains inside her breath –

a story she’s telling herself

as if it were not her own.

She moves through the city in dim light,

murmuring her tale.


Shadows play tricks.  Are those hisses?

She sees animals and bodies in the distance.


Once close, it is a wrinkled coat splayed in the road.

A scrap of wet carboard is still.


She moves quickly through the dark blue night.

A whisper.

#157 – Woman Eighty Four


She authors the account from the inside of her body.

Characters inscribed along a fleshy pink fold

are indecipherable in form and understanding.


This language echoing through organs

and blood, mucous and veins is nonetheless

fierce and strong.


It pulses an inescapable history,

a rhythmic song that is alive.


The interior of all her bodies,

translated, spoken

and silenced

over all


#156 – Woman Eighty Three

rear view

More than four hundred days have passed.
And she remains seated, as if on a throne,
at Washington and Western.

Positioned regally,
with legs crossed,
she is at the center opening of a
blue and grey tent.

Zipped into her plastic refuge
that protected from a cold wet
winter, it will soon,
defend against summer heat.

This shelter that shields her
conveniently conceals her
from the city which has forgotten
she exists.