Arantza García Ferrand

‘tulip lips and birdhouse chests. broken alarm clocks and lipstick-stained slot machines. butter. goggles. candles. a garland made of raisins. she drinks cherries and grows weeds and mistakes her garden bed for a dustpan. she is old western and new hollywood and an answering machine you can’t stop calling.’ Our protagonist lives beneath the gaze of a tapestry in the...