Her new thing is black. I will always be in mourning until the women of the world are free. The sisters of the Congo need her dollars by the thousands, and maybe a couple of iPods loaded up with pop standards. Do not ask me about real estate plans, that’s my business. Pursed lips, watery voice. She’s rallying for Starbucks to dedicate shelf space to Congolese chocolate. Apple freed her motherboard in exchange for one working ovary. The other doesn’t want to fry the eggs, play house, pump-feed baby bottles, launder milk-vomit cloths. She sticks to doggie style men in their fifties, Harvard professors freshly wiped from marriage. Say hey! Happiness! Coltan was the name of her assistant. Coltan is the name of a conflict mineral. Coltan will cease to exist in the hands of corruption after she’s done with them. He’s color blind? Reds are too pink for her. The house doesn’t look clean in its white on white on white. Expensive candles eek floral smell into cat pee. This is how she feels covering up her own rancid. She logs all the caffeine and carbs and steps and meditation of her days. Soon she’ll be a better person, not today. Tomorrow she promises her dream self. She cries when things cannot be found, when people die who have no choice to live. I comfort her only as my arms know how to, flaccid around stiffening shoulders. This afternoon, she won’t be seen writing in her garden studio with Pharaoh the cat on her lap. Scissors pinch her thumb as she cuts paper flowers for a yearly inspirational mood board. On paper she is thinner, younger, more impressionable. She tapes herself to roses and an outline of Buddha. I want to be that girl. Essays and T. S. Eliot, wartime analytics. They can’t criticize her for doing so much for others, but fame is a loose cadaver, the head spins away from itself. In tearful sweatpants Oprah plead with her to get up and do something about the women of the world. So she ran through the forest, spraining ankles and engagements. Her mom called her fiancé, said it’s over. He wouldn’t have heard her ending. She stacked cash inside her suitcase lining and fled to the dusted shacks of her gun-raped sisters all too sorrowed by the near promise of an American dream.
Felicity Fenton has presented her multidisciplinary work (writing, performance, installation) in a number of public and private spaces around the globe. She received her MFA in interdisciplinary arts from Goddard College. By day, she works as a designer and radio host. She lives in Portland, Oregon.