The distance of difference

several appointments are made in the house of distance the space where one lives and reproducts. afraid of the night day morning traffic she stays close to home, the living room of comfort, the dining room of dishes and chinaunderware. service is dusty from years of wasting. wait. is that the bedroom. is that the guilt your grandmother made. she slips into a black negligee her favorite doll-face-dream-man-lover-cadillac-hero is coming. excuse me please but i’m busy making pretty. this is my space and you’re not invited even if you are a writer or pretend to be a poet, you told me to interview you. well, this is not the time, can’t you see i’m trying to get bed ready

the following day the reporter thinks about the dimensions of her office, her creative apartment of sentences. is the paragraph enough to show how women live closer to the bone, shaving color scraping by on henna and ochre. color. the signifier of our destinations our past our present encounters with those of similar taste from expanse to pigmentations while in confinement to the distance of a blue gray yellow mixture. hair.

reality is a luxury for those who walk in toilet environments. where security protects their square dimension, a block of neighbors where outside enters. the watch is consistent with the red cardinal medearis. reality is relative to the person who is related to space kings, confinements of street city blocks garden clubs all meet here

may i interview you now. make it quick i have a cake to frost and my nails need to dry so hurry with the questions. are you happy. what kind of question is that, of course i’m not happy, if i was do you think i’d be living in this dump this nuclear space. you’ve done wonders with it. yeah. well. look do you have anything serious to talk about. sure. how old are you. none of your damn…okay. what do you think about rubbermaid. it’s the best plastic made and it comes in all sizes it stores all my left overs. sorta like a man. put a lid on em and store him in a refrigerator so when your hungry you can grab what you need and it’s still fresh. ya get what i mean. well. not exactly. okay my nails are dry your time is up and so is he

this is not working for me. i’m not able to relate the confinement of her situation. she seems content to be who she is in her discontent surfaces. maybe i’ll try a differnt angle

Irene Koronas is a US-based multimedia artist who writes poetry and essays after hours of earning money doing something else.