Diannely Antigua


My life is a meditation on excess baggage. I pay
240 euros to bring back a genuine Italian leather bag from Florence.

And I tell myself itís worth it. I tell myself theyíre
worth keeping around, the men I collect

like teeth in a motherís drawer. They are all versions
of children, the way they looked at me wide-eyed,

and I looked too, already aware of the future. I exchange
parts of my body for their bodies. The pubic hair

I shave in preparation
clogs the drain. I am the patron saint

of leftovers, the spaghetti grows a gel of starch
in the fridge, the pesto crusts a ring

around the jar. Iím interested
in the temperature I must reach

to be acceptable. The Bible speaks
ill of the lukewarm, spewed out of the mouth of god, and I weep

on my kitchen floor like Iím mourning a death
but itís just my own. There will be

a reckoning, a let go. So I practice
the art of multiplication, then division again. I create

and uncreate me, to take up space
then to disappear. It reminds me of the time

I learned about meiosis, the split and repeat and I feel
so naked, only a few cells

deeper than conception.
I want to find the true center, rip

towards the outside.

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