IS YOUR MOTHER PROUD
Sex, distance, the layer of fat under your skin and the image on the wall.
I walk through a familiar place, a place called home but not one my mother knows.
This is my centre point, it houses me and my belongings but not all can only be mine.
I have comfort and reassurance in this place.
The walls surrounding me have been a maze I’ve gotten lost in too many times, although as the light flickers and I find my way,
the finishing line is bright and clear.
This is the most perfect realisation of my wildest dreams.
My mother knows nothing of this place, nothing of the uphill struggle,
the dust in my eyes and my brittle fingers.
Is my mother proud, of the pill I swallowed to empty my shy belly,
my paper masculinity
and the line I carefully curve to suit my humble fantasies?
Is my mother proud of the clothes I wear?
The modest coat of armour that exists as a secret language, only you and I understand.
Is my mother proud of the boundless pastels that piece together my terracotta dreams? The dreams so far removed of anything mother envisioned for me.
Is my mother proud of every fibre of my being, colouring the walls that cage me and perform me? / / only now on stage, discovered along with everybody else.
Being wall to wall with an abundance of the weirdest and finest coveted creature of art, mother does not exist here.
Mother doesn’t belong here.
Maybe one day I’ll be good at making good art,
Maybe then my mother will be proud.
Text and Photographs by Aimee Barkany