absence of the latina intellectual: some abstract theory for your ass

there are several ideological lines,
the first being
there are three bodies to contend with:
mine
ours
theirs


my body is really heavy
with guilt, this leaking thing
charged with sex
and stifled


our body is really heavy
i am so crushed
by the burden of bodies belonging to me,
i must occupy space for our body
i must walk as these bodies,
these naked
and piling bodies,
these bodies thick
to stack and build upon,
these equally weak
and temporary bodies,
these bodies that are
simultaneously more and less


(i was holding my copy
of the women of brewster place
too tightly,
almost wrinkling
gloria's name
when my white coworker
lifted her nose and said
she could only read books
she actually heard of and
that were well written)


finally their body is really heavy.
the body on
and outside my body
is rendered weak
in its own construction,

as it renders itself
during and only through
its relentless creation of my body
and their body
and whatever bodies
that birth themselves
in between, outside and aside
of this central body of work
which is itself a body


my body is really heavy.
our body is really heavy.
their body is really heavy.


this theory
comes up against
what I've identified
as three ideological lines
in their bodies of work:


my body is weak
against their body.
my body must relent
to their body of work.
my body is only here
because of their bodies
and body of work.


i disagree
with these lines
in their body of work.


precisely because
they are lines
and what lines
actually make up my body?


their bodies are all line
which is why
their body of work
consists of lines
and why my body
does not fit into these lines,
its form enjoys
everything but lines


(the chapin
I've been fucking
on and off for four years
makes it a point
to remind me
of his love for redheads
who burn easily)


walls are supported
by their body of work
walls are made by promises
written about in their bodies
they are losing their grip
on these promises


(old white women
point at my legs
when they are crossed
on the train and in their way.
and
on three occasions
in my adult life
white women have shoved
their chests in my face
non sexually)


my body is constant
and in the way
of their body of work
and it's lines.


my form was here before
and birthed their bodies
my body will continue
to be a body of work
more than it is just my body


reading and writing
about the body
and their body
and their bodies of work
should render
all the bodies silent,
dead
it doesn't, I learned


(my ex
still has my copy
of borderlands
i still have her copy
of beloved)


as i wrap myself
in the flesh
of my own body
-- my own, meaning i own it,
this is a line
from their body of work
that i am now forcing
on my own created body
and body of work --
I've learned to tell you
it isn't there
you become accustomed
to my body of work
which is more my body
than my actual body


you will ask yourself:
where is this bitch

Artwork by Paula Rego, “Mermaid drowning Wendy”