Hybrid: Three Pieces by Monique Quintana
mother mirror
I hate the sound of Judy Jetson singing melodically in an elevator. I once cursed on the
elevator in a parking structure on the Fourth of July, said they were scary as fuck, and my
mother banished me from her sight long enough to find femininity in a neon garden. The
flowers gripped to the dirt, scream echoed when I tried to pull them out. Only reluctant
souvenirs could make me this discontent. At the end of my banishment, my mother waited
for me under a tree holding a basket with fruit I had never seen before. This was not the
screen I inherited, but I watched it anyway and put a star sticker next to the camera to look
her straight in the eyes.
the egg
It took three lifetimes for my mother to boil the egg in the rusted metal pot. My aunt twisted
lilies in our mouth to give us substance, and the petals broke down into our stomachs to
rejuvenate the parts that had fallen cold and ill. I sat next to the fire, the smoke coming out
of the chimney that our fathers made us. If only we could see through the night of morning,
the pristine of the brick of the kitchen we made for ourselves. The bright egg outside of its
yolk.
the tulips
Every time you ask me to share a plate with you, you want to share on your terms. I have
heard the story about you making your mother return your boots many times. Cut from old
brown leather, they perfume your ankles with memories and lime. We cut the winter flowers
from the stems and find spools of thread inside. Should I use these to make our dress of
whiteflies? Tonight we dine in the garden, drinking from tulip heads, the leaves passing over
our lips to make a cake from the bitter parts of our family.