Instead—Small, Rather Huddled and So On
for Eva Hesse
Why this pile of parts, the resin-soaked heads tightening? From her hands on air, the suggestion of body. I wander in this room of spines, but leave them alone. Such guts: the presence of versus and peril. Against self-sacrifice she gestured, contoured. Against the silver in her head. The rope, the line, absurd: a penis, then pink relief. I move around to find what’s left: smoothings and soft orbs. Her careless hasty hand. It’s done. I am unanchored. Nineteen repetitions, wan, translucent. Nothing less is meaningless. Lapped with wax or liquid latex, cheesecloth, rubber. From her hands, the gathered moods. Her resin, tube-like, glowing. And now, the sun pierces a small window because sometimes we need defenses. I let it parse and wait a little longer. All the surfaces keep kneeling, standing. Holy, hollow, dossing down. When I close my eyes, the pieces reconnoiter, occupy the grieving room. Her forms are shaded in their seam and volume. Each time, she climbed to what is meaningless and gave it flexion. Is it refusal to accuse the eye of what it’s doing, adding life to puckers, to the flaying folds? Each time, she must have laughed, then dripped discharge and aberration.