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.
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