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Museum Fatigue
By Anna Potter Upon viewing “Three Figures at the Base of Crucifixion” by Francis Bacon Garish orange framed by sterile white walls, black hole churning in redbrick universe, and I, small spectator, sucked into its revolution. Fifteen is the age of revelation, the year of waking up to the sharp edges of this flesh-suit, that eternal itching, that toothless smile, pedestrian still in matters of horror, that worldly sting still fresh on my cheek. * Consciousness demands screaming, I think. The lungs of a newborn can attest to this theory, how we all emerge, gory and guileless, shrieking into this world. But for the dying, for the dead, …
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Mother Tale
By Anna Potter We tell each other stories I tell you how in eighth grade I tried to graft new flesh Onto my birthmark, how when I began the crime of bleeding, I dammed myself with cotton and chocolate. You tell me how your body formed from the crust of earth, how desire rose in you with the same ache as morning sky, and how heavy it has been ever since. I had forgotten this until now, but once An old friend coaxed me with stories of how the sun rises in Haiti, how my body’s vacancy might soothe his own. Another recalled how she observed the curvature of the…
