For Leonora Carrington
Come over for dinner, sit at my table–
it’s a few years late, I know, but come over dead,
what little remains of your flesh hanging from yellowing bones.
I’ve always found the dead better company than the living.
Madness is welcome in this house, too; madness abounds in this house,
I for sure have lost my mind, scarred my skin and pulled my own hairs out
in its grip. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Self-harm,
mental hospital visits, mad visions? They’re things that happen to us,
not the locus of our creativity. That comes from elsewhere. We are whole.
But so what if they don’t see us, so what if they cast us off,
erase us from history, dismiss us as madwomen, so what? Here’s what:
it didn’t end with us and humans multiply, God forbid, there’ll be more
going crazy leaking ink, paint, blood and lust from their cunts.
Let us recreate each other in our respective arts: I’ll narrate you anew
and you may paint me surreal, inside out, not a breast or a face in sight
but all brains, bones, blood and guts.