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exhibition at the cafe

October 29, 2016

Exhibition at the Café

the café’s thunder-gray walls are covered in paintings of guns: rifles, handguns, one gun pointed at another. I am surprised by the lack of detestation I feel, as if my mind is protecting me by viewing the guns as mere symbol- almost harmless, almost good. sipping my vanilla latte I think how I want to hold the cold metal weight of one, to point the trigger at a cold metal place inside me no sunset or sunrise seems to take away.


my 2-month old daughter has fallen asleep at my breast. the length of her body is spread across my lap and I am comforted by her warmth, her curled hand like moonlight on my belly. I listen to the sounds from her point of view, what she would hear if she were awake: voices and ceramic clinks burning together in one ungraspable flame. the low backdrop drone of a middle-aged man who speaks with short pauses as if chanting a prayer.


I think of how my mother might have settled into her rocking chair, wooden, the color of her eyes. the sensations that might have swept through her as she nursed me, her firstborn, after a lifetime of water-treading starvation. hunger-her theme, her tragedy. how she might have found nourishment in the deep tender forest of my eyes, how she might have bowed low with her forehead to my feet and her love drilling a hole that she simultaneously filled with the shavings.


I read something written by the artist. that he is not making a statement but wants his audience to contemplate the powerful history-and-fate shaping thing called the Gun. there is a flavor in my mind, sweet and sour and resigned, knowing the forces that influence my own lamentable plot. knowing that to unlearn the mother’s hunger, the child must betray her.


From → poetry

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