Megin Jimenez


You Say You Want a Revolution


Meanwhile, bad art is bravely being made across the borough. Recent graduates traveling to the Paris of the mind, or forty years back, pillaging what's left of memory, tattoos to regret. In all good time, there will be putting on a show for a baby, offspring of the self.

Living for moments like New York's best caramel sticky buns: like sex, but better. New uses for bacon, gourmet burgers made of mixed meats, vintage frothy cocktails taking the place of politics or art.

Dragged by the body into an emotion. Praying on a yoga mat for a true political act.

Making your way through neighborhoods, which now, has become a walk through versions of your life. The house you grew up in no longer exists.

Remove the mantle of pop culture. Salvage your education from the fate of social marker. Get out while you can.

If there is room in this world for a catalogue of intellectual property, there is room for this.




Home for Unwed Mothers


The salmon were returning home to spawn. It was their
tastiest time, we had learned, to be served with capers and lemon.

The day the cake fell, he said, Your menstruating
will sour the mayonnaise. (Homely little tart.)

We were focused on the science of our home life,
chemicals interacting through heat, buns in the oven.

The test: What is your residential status or natural habitat?
The home economics teacher felt comfortable in her subject field.

News from abroad. We are eating for two now.
The homing missiles seek the warmest spot, reads the announcer.

We couldn't say where we were.

On the television, the baseball flew high, home run.




Unplanned Conception


This story begins with suspecting Everything of not being O.K. I couldn't take my eyes off the fish's languid tail, the flicker like a slowed-down heartbeat. My lover, he threw his body down under a tiny desk for shelter, as if from something nuclear. Our trapped animal act. I bled for three days and watched movies in bed, he brought me ice cream. Sisters, I'm sorry for having wanted to eat anything at all. I threw up about a third of my soul and it looked and tasted exactly like bile. Yet several months later, as several months earlier, I was the one charged with taking in the other, between my breasts, as if he were my child.