Mad Hatters' Review Issue 10, Fall 2008
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Whatnots by
Jalina Mhyana
Music by Paul A. Toth
Art: "Not my Window" by Carolyn Adams

Not my Window by Carolyn AdamsLove Tokens Received

Life-sized phallus carved from block of milk chocolate, wrapped in red tin foil with a note that read, “eat me;”garlic when I had a cold, to freshen my blood; vintage erotic postcard from a trip to Amsterdam with stereoscopic lenses to make the nakedness 3-dimensional; hickeys, bruises of love (proof of slow-dancing at school dances); homemade pasta in the shape of butterflies because I always have them in my stomach when I see him; love letters from Germany written in poor english from the 16-year old who tangled my hair with leaves and sticks and dirt; crystal necklace my13 year-old lover left in my bed before dying in a drug-related car crash; lunch in Paris, with a view of a fire-juggler outside the Notre Dame Cathedral; street artist weaving palm-frond crickets that I stuffed my suitcase with (a chirping music box on the flight from Puerto Rico to Japan); peppermint tea with honey in bed, made sweeter by kisses in German and English; herbal foot massage in Tokyo like a tea ceremony; satchel of magical herbs from my pagan friend to keep under my driver’s seat for safety; antique, golden Buddha in a tryptich box that opens and closes; crown cut from Coca-Cola cans; cassette with mixes of his voice singing “I love you”on different tracks, sent to me in Europe; my body, sketched nude on a large canvas, with a bad poem about love beneath it; glitter and bits of gold string in my hair from my friend at an art show; armfuls of deliciousness brought to my door unexpectedly: tofu/ butternut squash soup with a green apples, goat cheese, and honey sandwich; wedding vows, thirteen years and counting; tiny perfume bottle filled with paper circles from a hole puncher—on each circle, the words “I’m sorry;” miniature diamond ring when I was 10, from the 18 year-old Morrocan millionaire’s son who asked me to marry him; a transparent etching of his village taped to my window so I can see my world through his childhood memories; dreadlock from a friend who is now dead, to whom I dedicated a poem; an antique Japanese scroll with a Boddhisatva painted with microscopic kanji letters; love note that reads, “You are at my very center, my core,” wrapped around the body of the smallest hand-painted nesting doll, in the bellies of all the other, larger dolls; a poem: “I’m in a rush a little pulsing with all that is mine”

life-sized phallus to freshen my blood; wedding vows topped with goat cheese and honey; self-portrait of my very center, filled with paper cut-outs; a young man juggling crickets and tofu soup at my door; microscopic words (bruises of love) sprinkled with lemon juice; Buddha in a drug-related car crash, wrapped in red tin foil; satchel filled with foot massages, to which I dedicated a poem; my head, carved from a block of Paris, resting on magical herbs; love letters from the smallest hand-painted nesting doll; a suitcase stuffed with slow-dancing; a cassette chirping with wedding vows and bad poems cut from Coca-Cola cans; armfuls of microscopic nudes in each other’s bellies; street artist who opens and closes his lover’s face unexpectedly; vintage apologies traveling from his hair to his eye and so on; a crown of fire he said he’d never let any other woman wear; “I love you” in poor English, written with dirt and sticks; my little pulsing body, sketched nude across Tokyo, with strings of millionaires in my hair.

 
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last update: October 14, 2008