#120 – Woman Forty Seven

distortion

“The truth was so fast. You had to squint. It was occurring to her in strange and swift seconds of vision that her communication with the world, that secret atmosphere that she was cultivating around herself like a darkness, was her final existence – beyond that border she herself was silent like a thing.”

Clarice Lispector

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#119 – Woman Forty Six

skin

Full and round and rose.
Press into the fleshy thigh, the plump arm,
the full cheek and the pink will bounce back.
She is powerful in her skin.

Like a marble sculpture, hard and defined.
Flesh wraps tightly around muscle.
Strength realized through sweat and tears.
She is powerful in her skin.

Draped as thin fabric across bone.
Flesh detaches from the muscle.
Wrinkles are her inscriptions of experience and time.
She is powerful in her skin.

#118 – Woman Forty Five

Dark waters1

She is these dark waters,
without emptiness for light or air to seep in.

She eats everything,
then circles round for more.

Sharp white teeth fill a gaping red mouth.

Swimming in the same black waters
that fill her up, she dives deep and surfaces.

Dives deep and surfaces.

Suffering this insatiable hunger,
she bears a constant struggle to
feed her self-absorbed question,
“why me?”

Summer waves fall lightly, blue-green, salty.

But her waters swirl violently.

They will either be calmly stilled,
or,
build a gradual yet powerful vortex
and
eventually,
pull her under.

#117 – Woman Forty Four

saltscape

As she presses the door open, her body is met with a

surge of heat releasing itself from the dark room.

The evening sun is low, but temperatures have risen.

 

She enters, observes the salt.

Just days ago,

transparent crystals shimmered like

a field of false diamonds.

 

And now, unexpectedly they

have disintegrated into a soft, vague snowfall.

 

The bright white forms crumble at the touch,

defying her attempts to coax them into a new landscape.

#114 – Woman Forty One

Paula

     She is all she needs but will never realize

     inside of a pink sky.

     Black eyes dirty fingernails.

 

“Time is reverberating.  The sun is always shrouded… Here, in this place, outside,

in the woods and in the fields, is the fuzzy presence, muffled but powerful, of

young human beings alive in the world.

It’s not what young girls are dreaming but what they are thinking”

 

Marie Darrieussecq, Being Here is Everything”

 

Head of a Blonde Girl In Front of a Landscape, 1901, Paula Moderson-Becker

#113 – Woman Forty

dance

She is climbing the walls on the third floor,

alone in a room filled with people.

 

She has paused in her self-imposed strain.

 

She is upside-down

observing the room with closed eyes and soft breath.

She smells jasmine tea and exertion.

 

In slow motion, four fingernails dig into the plaster wall,

painted infirmary green.

With resistance, her forearm pushes the thick air away while

her fingers blossom open from her dry palm.

 

(A time-lapse film of a cabbage rose blooming into a

delicate pale pink sphere.)

 

She remains low and quiet while

an un-choreographed dance releases,

surrounds her.

 

Without moving, she floats out the window.

A crisp blue wind blows over her faint body and

carries her away.

#112 – Woman Thirty Nine

stairway

Unsettled, she moves through every room with swiftness.

Her eyes dart around each space which stimulates new thoughts before the previous ones have completed. Her gestures, as spontaneous as her thinking, alter her body into angular shapes that morph without clean transitions.

She is sharp like a jangled sound.

She walks to the desk, the bureau, the kitchen table. At each juncture she must pause to recollect why she is standing there.  To find a paper? Fold the laundry? Clean the dishes?

What she set out to do moments prior is lost so she keeps moving in this stuttered state of being.

For a day, she starts and stops and starts again until at twilight, she gives herself permission to get in her bed, start anew tomorrow.

#111 – Woman Thirty Eight

lispector

“She’d never had a more precise and strange notion of two places existing at the same time, of one same hour unfolding all over the world, and the instantaneous feeling brought her closer than ever before to everything she didn’t know.

How I know how to make things up all the way to the end – she was leading herself through an unwitting stubbornness to a point where in fact she was reaching whatever she’d wanted and yet couldn’t stand the thing she herself had created.”

 

The Chandelier, Clarice Lispector