Entrance – Redivider

by Kiana Shaley

The entrance is rearranging.

The entrance is rearranging. Memory palace of perfect likeness, as in the way the mind itself forgets then fills in, so renovations are done.

The entrance is rearranging. Emerges a door. Memory palace of perfect likeness, as in the way the mind itself forgets then fills in transparent squares with Mexican summers. I haven’t. Through a gate, a flight of stairs leads to a garden. She is small enough to trip on the last step and be helped up.

The entrance is rearranging. Emerges a door, off-center. Memory palace of perfect likeness, as in the way the mind itself forgets then fills in transparent squares with Mexican summers. Josef Albers also visited Teotihuacán with a beloved. I haven’t. Through a gate, a flight of stairs leads to a garden, teeming. Marigolds in bloom. In the southern corner, live wires hang against corkboards. She is small enough to trip on the last step and be helped up. She will undust herself. From the open kitchen window, the smell of sweet arroz. A VHS with scratchy footage.

The entrance is rearranging. Emerges a door, off-center, imperceptibly ajar. Memory palace of perfect likeness, as in the way the mind itself forgets then fills in transparent squares with Mexican summers. Josef Albers also visited Teotihuacán with a beloved. I haven’t. On the day the sun returned to the Tropic of Cancer, we went to Xochicalco. That light should permeate every cave, cavity, crevice of the body until it becomes constant, omnipresent. Through a gate, a flight of stairs leads to marigolds in full bloom. Roots teeming. On the southern border, women disappear forever. They will play hide and seek there later. She is small enough to trip on the last step and be helped up. She will undust herself. He will attempt to undust her dress. His fingers linger. From the open kitchen window, the smell of sweet arroz. Canela con leche. Cajeta, the displacement of object. A VHS with scratchy footage. Play it back. By age six, she knew when to prepare herself for the cousins. In this place, every day is the same except for when it wasn’t. Pretend sodden toilet paper on a plate is food. Hands put chicken on the table, so we grab tortillas. Somewhere, Coca-Cola. Arriving suddenly to the vanishing point.

The entrance is rearranging. Black door. Memory palace of perfect likeness, as in the way the mind itself forgets then fills in transparent squares with Mexican summers. Anise and blood orange. Josef Albers also visited Teotihuacán with a beloved. I haven’t. On the day the sun returned to the Tropic of Cancer, we went to Xochicalco. That light should permeate every cave, cavity, crevice of the body until it becomes constant, omnipresent. Do I want to remember? Slowly, she let it unravel, piling onto the linoleum floor. Slow encroachment, misophonic pulse. In the southern corner, live wires hang against torn corkboards. They will play hide and seek there later. Machismo culture commands he count first. First things first. She is small enough to trip on the last step and be helped up. She will undust herself. He will attempt to undust her dress. His fingers linger. Traces of past actions mark the unclean. Or perhaps it was she would be dirty. From the open kitchen window, the smell of sweet arroz. Canela con leche. Cajeta, the displacement of object. You dip Maria cookies in coffee. Give it to me black. Sunlight through a window becomes shadow at the perfect angle. The assuredness with which he slides his hand. A VHS with scratchy footage. The VCR ripped right through the good images. Play it back. Can I return damage? By age six, she knew when to prepare herself for the cousins. By age nine, she knew when to hide. Lace doilies on glass reveal dirty fingerprints. Someone folds their hands on their lap. Let’s pray. In this place, every day is the same except for when it wasn’t. Pretend sodden toilet paper on a plate is food. Sometimes, I am walking down a street and relive a dark room. Thick blankets. Hands put chicken on the table, so we grab tortillas. Somewhere, Coca-Cola. Two warm bodies are left alone. What is anamnesis worth? What you write and repeat moves from abstract to concrete. Arriving suddenly to the vanishing point. Fine. Syntax of discomfort. Every year, abordamos un avión a el Distrito Federal. Start of it all. Memory works in systems striving toward compunction. Negate arrangement. Medicine? ¡No friegues! Seemed like we unfold in moments. When he is finished, he throws off the blanket and washes his hands.

The entrance is rearranging. Open and off-center. Memory palace of perfect likeness, as in the way the mind itself draws translucent boundaries to reclassify topography. Believing a man can simplify history. With limited knowledge of the cultures that built the structures they admired, he called their time there Homage to a Square. This is art. One repurposes another and reaps treasure. On the third floor of the MoMA, I want to tell you this, but Jean-Luc Godard beats me to it. I haven’t. On the day the sun returned to the Tropic of Cancer, we went to Xochicalco. That light should permeate every cave, cavity, crevice of the body until it becomes constant, omnipresent. Mayans apposed the plaza to the temple, moving their people in an infinite circle. Errors are inevitable. When the city was renamed, it became what Cortés could not translate. First things first: paradise. Behind boughs of eucalyptus, a hiding place. An American child goes to el mercado with five US dollars and returns a la casa de su abuelita con aguas frescas y tortas de milanesa para toda la familia. Later, I would take la ruta to the palace and make preliminary sketches of spent lives. She is small enough to trip on the last step and be helped up. She will undust herself. He will attempt to undust her dress. His fingers linger. Traces of past actions mark the unclean. Or perhaps it was she was born dirty. In her first confession, she wants to tell the priest what has happened but feels shame, so says in Spanish, Robe lápices. How to introduce statistics. One in three girls under the age of eighteen will confuse a hand for a biological weapon. From the open kitchen window, the smell of sweet arroz. Canela con leche. Cajeta, the displacement of object. Not every reverie is unimportant. Three Maria cookies on a red plastic plate. ¿Quieres café? Abuelita does not deserve to be loved so much. Sunlight through a window becomes shadow at the perfect angle. A VHS with scratchy footage. I was choosing oranges when the image of family struck me as superfluous. Another time, I was by the feminine napkins when I ran into Magdis from Clase 406. By age six, she knew when to prepare herself for the cousins. By age nine, she knew when to hide. Someone folds their hands on their lap. Let’s pray. These are not the memories I think of when I hear Cuernavaca. Glass shards surface in water. A body hung from a noose under the overpass by las Galerias, and though danger had been entering my room nightly, it is daytime when I wonder if anyone is safe. What does a Mexican drug war mean? In this place, every day is the same except for when it wasn’t. Pretend sodden toilet paper on a plate is food. Casitas is an innocent game in which children assume adult activities. Cook. Clean. Withhold information. Domestic distractions for future suffering. When he calls it protection, the family gathers to forgive him. Sometimes, I am walking down a street and relive a dark room. Avoid thick blankets. Hands put chicken on the table, so we grab tortillas. Somewhere, Coca-Cola. Two warm bodies are still alone. What is anamnesis worth? What I write and repeat moves from abstract to concrete. A poet once asked, Can I use language to change myself? Drunk at the bus stop waiting for the 38, I ask my boyfriend, Is it too late to change? To say that I loved him would be an understatement. Arriving suddenly to the vanishing point. He takes off his shirt. As an adult, I would conflate power and sex, having believed I found the formula in one-night stands. Breakfast is weakness. Every year, abordamos un avión a el Distrito Federal. Start of it all was included for musicality but makes a gag of actuality. Rather, reverence for concrete ruins and complex machinery would incite a girl to writing. To uphold tradition, reify givens. I come to hate the faces I fall in love with. Even then, very little excited me about movies except the theater’s silence. Labor, the liminal space between progress and deviance. There went wonder. Memory works in systems striving toward completion. Negate arrangement through repetition in which meaning is recontextualized with every expanded sequence. Await what arises. To get to abuelita’s from my aunt’s, cross a large field of rubble. Bottle caps, plastic bags, rotting cats. Medicine? ¡No friegues! Ya te dije, Come cacahuates. Words are trees removed from their forests. Medicine means a shot in the ass administered by a superstitious woman. Camote enmielado in the a.m. Levity of post-repression. Fill in the blank using the following word bank: comes crees conoces coges. Seemed like we unfold in moments. A new attention to arrest. Standing in the center of a colonial square. Hold your inhale so as to disappear. I haven’t been to a water park in four years. That’s one year less than the times he’s asked me to undress. That pool smells like piss. When he is finished, he throws off the blanket and washes his hands. Look! A masked dancer with Mayan feathers is entering the party. Meditation is based on the same principle as distraction: mind’s machinations. We are prone to seek novelty within boundaries of the assumed. At twenty-five, I told my parents. We did not speak for three hundred and eighty-nine days. It was after I stopped sniveling that I realized my neighbors were listening. Gavin enjoys stopping by on weeknights to smoke my weed. I am not saying I am unhappy. Only that I wish some things happened differently. I should have asked for sugar instead of milk. If you want to see something beautiful, drive with your uncle on a rainy July night to the top of a mountain where his dance studio is. The fourth wall will be a large window. Lightning will swallow the valley below. Your uncle is not the same he of other sentences. Depending on its albumen, a cracked egg is comida or malas vibras. Something about poinsettias makes hostility soft. If the subaltern could speak, what would they say?

The entrance is rearranging. Open and off-center. Penetrable. For an illusion to be successful, the viewer must stand very still. Memory palace of perfect likeness, as in the way the mind itself draws translucent boundaries to reclaim semblance. Believing a man can simplify history. With limited knowledge of the cultures that built the structures they admired, he called their time there Homage to a Square. This is art. One repurposes another and reaps retrospectives. I haven’t. On the third floor of the MoMA, I want to tell you this, but Jean-Luc Godard beats me to it. Repeat the sentence. On the third floor of the MoMA, I want to tell you attention is the difference between contravention of past and transgression of present, but by the time I look up, you are someone else. Can we start again? The sun is returning to the Tropic of Cancer soon. First things first: paradise, crumpled tights. Behind boughs of eucalyptus, Xolotl waits. An American child goes to el mercado with five US dollars and returns a la casa de su abuelita con tortas de milanesa para toda la familia, dos barnices de uñas, y una pluma de color rosa. Later, I would take la ruta to the palace and make preliminary sketches of spent lives. She is small enough to trip on the last step and be helped up. She will undust herself. He will attempt to undust her dress. His fingers linger. Traces of past actions mark the unclean. Or perhaps it was she was born dirty. In her first confession, she wants to tell the priest what has happened but feels shame, so says in Spanish, Robe lápices. How to introduce statistics. One in three girls under the age of eighteen will receive a caress as a tightened Mole wrench. Razor blades collected in an empty cigarette packet were stored in her nightstand with Kafka and lubricant. From the open kitchen window, the smell of sweet arroz. Cajeta, the displacement of object. Not every reverie is unimportant. Parakeets pluck their clavichord stomachs. Three Maria cookies on a red plastic plate. Abuelita does not deserve to be loved so much. What even is love, I ask him. Sunlight through a window becomes shadow at the perfect angle. A VHS with scratchy footage. Daily, we uncover tapes in random places. I avoid the Target in the neighborhood I grew up in precisely for this reason. No one wants to know how things have been. By age six, she knew how to prepare herself for the cousins. By age nine, she knew when to hide. Someone folds their hands on their lap. Let’s play. These are not the memories I think of when I hear Cuernavaca. Glass shards surface in water. A body hung from a noose under the overpass by las Galerias, and though danger had been entering my room nightly, it is daytime when I wonder if anyone is safe. What does a Mexican drug war mean? In this place, every day is the same except for when it wasn’t. Routine is exhausting and does not quell the ripples underneath. I am past pretending sodden toilet paper is protein. Casitas is an innocent game in which children assume adult activities. Cook. Clean. Withhold information. Teeth to tongue. Domestic distractions for future suffering. When he calls it protection, the family gathers to forgive him. Sometimes, I am walking down a street and relive a dark room. Avoid thick blankets. They are political weapons. Hands put chicken on the table, so we grab tortillas. Somewhere, Coca-Cola. Two warm bodies are still alone. What is anamnesis worth? What I write and repeat moves from abstract to concrete. A poet once asked, Can I use language to change myself? Catatonic reticence precipitates psychological tests. Arriving suddenly to the vanishing point. He takes off his shirt. Bile escapes mouth. As an adult, I would conflate power and sex, having believed I found the formula in one-night stands. Breakfast is weakness. Patrick and I sit eating morning potatoes. Every year, abordamos un avión a el Distrito Federal. Start of it all was included for musicality but makes a gag of actuality. Rather, reverence for concrete ruins and complex machinery would incite a girl to writing. To uphold tradition, reify givens. I come to hate the faces I fall in love with. Even then, very little excited me about movies except the theater’s commitment to appearances. Labor, the liminal space between progress and deviance. Memory works in systems striving toward completion. Negate arrangement through repetition in which meaning is decontextualized with every expanded sequence. Await what arises. Words may surprise you. To get to abuelita’s from my aunt’s, cross a large field of rubble. Bottle caps, plastic bags, rotting cats. Do I have change for chips? Medicine? ¡No friegues! Ya te dije, Come cacahuates. Words are trees removed from their forests. Medicine means a shot in the ass administered by a superstitious woman. Camote enmielado in the a.m. Levity of post-repression. Fill in the blank using the following word bank: comes crees conoces coges. Which other verbs turn your noes into yeses? A new attention to arrest. Standing in the center of a colonial square. Hold your inhale so as to disappear. I haven’t been to a water park in five years. That’s one year less than the times he’s asked me to undress. That pool smells like piss. Some people believe that because of its chemical composition, urine is God’s antidote to modernization. This catholicon is called urophagia. Hasty generalization also applies. When he is finished, he throws off the blanket and washes his hands. Look! A masked dancer with Mayan feathers is exiting the party. Meditation is based on the same principle as distraction: mind’s machinations. We are prone to seek novelty within boundaries of the assumed. At twenty-five, I told my parents. We did not speak for four hundred and sixty-five days. It was after I stopped sniveling that I realized my neighbors were listening. Gavin enjoys stopping by on weeknights to smoke my weed. Adam enjoys asking what my weekend plans are. Men are as complicated as their level of intelligence, which, when divided by their drive to dominate, is drastically compromised. I am not saying I am unhappy. Only that I wish some things happened differently. I should have asked for sugar instead of milk. If you want to see something beautiful, drive with your uncle on a rainy July night to the top of a mountain where his dance studio is. The fourth wall will be a large window. Lightning will swallow the valley below. Your uncle is not the same he of other sentences. Depending on its albumen, a cracked egg is comida or malas vibras. Something about poinsettias makes hostility a benediction. ABUELITA Hot Chocolate will replace your mom when you decide it is time to leave home. If the subaltern could speak, what would they say? There are things you can do in poetry because it does not matter to economics. Intention is a thought experiment with little to no usefulness. In arrested kinetics, there is no hint of death.

Kiana Shaley is the author of Entrance, forthcoming with Futurepoem, and poems that have appeared in Fugue, The Racket, and other publications. She teaches at California State University, Long Beach and at Santa Monica College, serves as the associate poetry editor for Exposition Review, and lives in Los Angeles.