Carmen Mojica
Dimensions of Art
In the breeze of summer’s introduction to the stage of the seasons that ripple through this earth,
I danced with my skirt bunched up in my fist, talking philosophies on life into the folds of our eyes the way artists sometimes do;
We said that night we would never sacrifice the love at the expense of having no reason to rise from beds too tempting and to safe to leave otherwise.
Observe shape.
As clearly as the sun defies night on the longest day of the year, the seemingly intricate design has a method and depth to it.
She shed tears for him that morning after, as we realized night could not shroud us in mystery for much longer;
We learn shapes of hearts don’t determine their kindness or perseverance.
Everything is illuminated when we feel alive.
Countless peace pipes shared between sisters, between lovers, we light lighters in dark spaces so they never forget day.
You wake up inches from my face so I don’t forget what a human body can feel like inside me.
The shape of your eyes intrigues me to stare,
The same way sculptors and painters do when we create art together.
Observe shape, contour;
Make sure the lighting is right,
And remember our lives are made up of lines.
An artist said that to his student once:
He wanted her to remember curves are just transformed lines creating a new dimension.
Every pen stroke, measure it.
Savor every single second of this moment before it dries.
Every single slight touch of my fingers in your clay-like skin reminds me that I cannot change your composition, but my imprint is still noted, yet transient.
Bending me like a beam of light, a new dimension created in the blankness of the time and space.
The lighting on the pattern of your infinite skin was perfect that night, only but slightly accentuating the highlights of your jaw line, and the ridge right under your eye that become the predecessor to your cheekbone.
I notice the shadows the light cast upon you
And it is then that it becomes clear to me the mystique of dark and light;
I could imagine this.
And every brush stroke…
Study the image before your paintbrush touches the canvas.
Stare.
No.
Really reach your gaze into the blankness of what you thought tomorrow was, and realize what it can become,
The untapped potential of your very existence depends of this portrait of what we think we see and what is really there.
Create space.
Hold out your pencil, out in the air to measure the distance of what is.
It is possible to recreate dimensions
When I find myself translating your body into a speaking pattern my soul understands,
Fundamentally listening to every syllable we breathe into the air when we speak in circles we’ve drawn around each other.
These days I feel my heart pulsing in my ear reminding me to listen to each passion I was born with inside
And I find the sketches of conversation created on rooftops as the sun and moon were juxtaposed in perfect balance;
The same way one side of a scale gazes at the other.
It’s all about the details, he told me one night as we walked to the train station aware of the design we exist in,
And I came home one night, held her face in my hands to study the colors of her eyes.
They are green, they are blue; they are the ocean
Spokes of colors like wheels of vision that caress her pupils;
I missed them.
I’ve refused to see the rainbows hidden in your sky, tucked away in your smiles
Until you told me to look at you that afternoon
And it was then I saw
That with eyes wide open the fleeting realities crossing my line of vision are not as 3 dimensional as once perceived.
About the poet
Carmen Mojica, 24, was born and raised in Bronx, New York, and lives presently in Albany. She is a poet, writer, workshop facilitator, model, and student doula. She published her first literary work, a poetry chapbook titled “I Loved You Once,” in 2009. In October 2009, she then went on to self-publish ‘Hija De Mi Madre’ (My Mother’s Daughter), a combination of memoirs, poems and research material that explains the effects of race on identity from an academic standpoint.