by Lily Hoang
Women & Desire – IV
The woman down the hall eats. She eats and she eats and it is repulsive how she forklifts food into the cave of her mouth. She is a monster, never fulfilled.
Women & Memory – I
The woman down the hall is not dead, but her apartment is a mausoleum. She has erected statues in her own image, one for every year of her adult life. This is something she began decades ago when she dreamt of being an art student at the university. Certainly, her creations are nothing original—they’re nothing more than facsimiles of herself—but she’s accurate. Each pore on her skin is accounted for, each hair defined.
Since then, this woman down the hall purchases large chunks of marble or wood or clay and on a specified day each year, she begins a new version of herself, life-scaled and nude. She is always nude. It takes her three-quarters of the year to complete herself, and by the time it is finished, she has already changed. There are additional wrinkles and sags.
Once a year, the woman down the hall invites us into her home for the unveiling of her new statue. We wind our way through all these manifestations, a garden of women, all paying some sort of homage to her, waiting for her to die so they alone can remain the original.
Trading Women – II
Only yesterday, the woman down the hall took all of our marbles. She did not trade them, as any decent woman would. No, she stole them, and we let her. We let her take all our marbles like we’d never played marbles before in our whole entire pathetic lives.