the siren
&
corrals of chaac
&
5am diorama
MONIQUE QUINTANA
the siren
The mounted fish fell in love with the graduate student. Every night when she walked by his glass case, he would remark on the stone shapes on her dress hem or the way she held her coffee cup tightly, her finger rings shining like the metal floor of boats. He pictured her walking around dirty brown sand and helping her children dig holes and pack buckets and clapping oils between her wrists. One day she walked up to the glass and looked at him with recognition, and he fell to the bottom of the casing, his scales like gold, his gills packed fresh with grit.
the siren
The mounted fish fell in love with the graduate student. Every night when she walked by his glass case, he would remark on the stone shapes on her dress hem or the way she held her coffee cup tightly, her finger rings shining like the metal floor of boats. He pictured her walking around dirty brown sand and helping her children dig holes and pack buckets and clapping oils between her wrists. One day she walked up to the glass and looked at him with recognition, and he fell to the bottom of the casing, his scales like gold, his gills packed fresh with grit.
corrals of chaac
On Saturdays, she saw the smoke rise to the windows and make unrecognizable shapes. Her cousins cooked the meat and the fish, and people came from all over the valley to buy it. She saw babies grow into children and heard about young men dying. The one other constant thing was her bright blue mouth and the breathing that came from it and the salt from the meat and the brine from the fish reminding her that there were things beyond this city, blood particles she would never see and the reckoning of this would keep her joyful.
On Saturdays, she saw the smoke rise to the windows and make unrecognizable shapes. Her cousins cooked the meat and the fish, and people came from all over the valley to buy it. She saw babies grow into children and heard about young men dying. The one other constant thing was her bright blue mouth and the breathing that came from it and the salt from the meat and the brine from the fish reminding her that there were things beyond this city, blood particles she would never see and the reckoning of this would keep her joyful.
5 AM diorama
She sat on the balcony and watched the square patterns on the iron provoke her. One square was a house with the love of her life and his wife, daughters, sons, dogs, and lamb. Another square was a small brick house where she lived as a young woman on the edge of town, the first in her family to do so. Another square was a box where she'd kept the trinket from that day walking along the street when she found a busted silver chain necklace that would remind her that the space between hope and dying is small.
She sat on the balcony and watched the square patterns on the iron provoke her. One square was a house with the love of her life and his wife, daughters, sons, dogs, and lamb. Another square was a small brick house where she lived as a young woman on the edge of town, the first in her family to do so. Another square was a box where she'd kept the trinket from that day walking along the street when she found a busted silver chain necklace that would remind her that the space between hope and dying is small.
|
MONIQUE QUINTANA is a Xicana from Fresno, CA, and the author of Cenote City (Clash Books, 2019). Her work has appeared in Pank, Wildness, Lost Balloon, The Acentos Review, and other publications. You can read her book reviews and artist interviews at Luna Luna Magazine, where she is a contributing editor. She has been supported by Yaddo, the Sundress Academy for the Arts, the Kimmel Harding Nelson Center, and the Community of Writers. You can find her at moniquequintana.com.
/// To be kaleidoscoped means moving and learning with focus and intentionality while surrendering yourself to beauty and danger. /// This triptych imagines the liminal spaces we create when we desire things out of our reach, just as ghosts hunger for resolution and gossip provokes curiosity. |