Books

"The sheets in the photographs match the sheets on the bed. The body looks good. The face isn't much. I smile. I'm one of them now, a blade in the guts of some future girl."

"The gangs of girls marched into where we lived like they were welcome. (And, to be fair, they had been once…) They knew from how they’d known us then where we kept what was dear to us. They knew where we hid our special secrets. "

"Poetry is not evidence,
it is and it is not not not.
Somebody is lying
about the moon disappearing."

I opened my eye. It was not confronted by pussy. That onslaught only happened in Tío Miguel’s room. If Abuelito was hogging the bathroom, the only other toilet you could use was Miguel’s, and to earn relief you had to journey through the labyrinth of pornography that filled his bedroom.

Even on his toilet, Miguel treated you to muff. On the door across from his commode hung a life-size poster of a lady in a see-through blouse splaying herself, Georgia O'Keefing you as things shot out of your own flower. I minded all the pussy but, at the same time, part of me welcomed it.

In his review of Intra-Venus, Hannah's posthumous show, Ralph Rugoff describes the artist's startling photos of her naked cancer-ridden body as "a deeply thrilling venture into narcissism." As if the only possible reason for a woman to publically reveal herself could be self-therapeutic. As if the point was not to reveal the circumstances of one's own objectification.