About Ana

The truth is, nobody
       knows how Ana Mendieta
met her death. It would appear
       she was pushed. Some distance below,
the doorman said he heard
       a woman shout No, and then
the sound as her body
       hit the top of the diner
so hard her face left a mark
       like a postal stamp. In this photo
she is naked and feathered. She looks
       like the first woman
like she doesn’t know
       what a camera is, that somewhere
in the world it is believed
       that these things can steal a soul.
Her arms are out, as if saying
       you move them like this, to fly—
like this, sí?
Her feet are
       apart, you can see the
sphere of her hips, the delta
       between her legs.
I look at her, sated, and think
       here is the true work of the body:
to adorn itself and be
       comfortable, unaware. I myself
am bored of fig leaves,
       of shames I did not choose.