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Sunday, 25 May 2008 02:00

Scissor

By  Charlotte Gait

There was a time when you and I were connected by iron, acid, vitamin and blood. Where every mouthful I took was with the express purpose of feeding you into a fat little babeczka I could rip out and sit on my knee, sing songs to and immerse in our tongue. Perhaps with the exception of the occasional vodka, every swallow was specifically packaged for delivery down the snot green umbilical hose so you could grow into the bouncing babeling you are today.
You can look at me all you want out of those large faminous eyes but it's not like I haven't done anything for you up to this dust-covered point in time. The backache balancing you, the dizziness as you leached anaemia into your host, the shattered pelvis and the suckled bones. Yet all the time it was glory to carry you, gift-wrapped recipe of your father and I made flesh.
The delivery was not so fun. The scissor, scissor, scissor before the forceps; your reluctance to engage from the safety of your larder; and, finally, the snip, snip of flesh, fat, uterine wall. But his hand, his breath, all the way through. And, finally, you, our love: tangible, expandable and covered in vernix.
Sharing him with you was never hard, though others worried. He took you to church, the swings, the pool and all the time it was me in you in us. Little family. Your tales gave me him in his absence.
During the week, you and I would pack our suitcases, holiday to the drawing room, paint portraits and orchestrate our private songs, waiting for him to come home and complete us. But recently the holidays have been different and the living room has become a bedroom, a washroom and a flapping pit of despond. Not a kitchen, sadly. And after keeping you warm and carried, precious marriage bundle, thinking you must come first, the pantry is empty and you gnaw at me in a dog-whistle whine while I try to shush the words which got us into this trouble in the first place.
I walk and my calories fall to the ground while the wind cream-whips our water to ice. But worse for him. Still he comes to us, though it's harder now. His soul juts through while his hands hide beneath their calluses. I see him sneaking you his worker's potato peeling, decaying cabbage, on which you gorge, little leech, never acknowledging that with each mouthful you scavenge idly on the other half of me.
Once you seemed to be our future but now the iron foundry rings out night after night and the burning cherishes this hopeless sky. I know he sweats and drops for you but read only this in his crystals: there is no other Him.
But you, Babeczku. Not quite as unique as I once thought. My waiting womb intact, my fresh unpillaged eggs, our love to create something which won't dissolve between your crunching jaws. Little cherubim – sculptable again and again into infinity.
And so, Daddy's greedy little angel. I'll:
Cut off the gannet mouth.
Obstruct the gaping stomach.
My second birth to him.
Quiet now.
Snip, snip.
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There was a time
Milk
Warm
Thick
Close
So close
Pumping
Warm connected flesh
And then:
Butternut
Puree
Peas
Juice
Diluted
Flavour
Laughter, my hair, my face,
Her hair, carpet, shouting, laughing,
Either.
Meal times
Talking
Me talking
This is what I did
Papa
What we made
What that horrid boy
Said to me, before he
Kicked me, kissed me,
It was gross.
Nourishing. Thank you, Mama.
Protect me from boys.
I want to stay here.
Forever.
Silence outside.
Swallow my tongue.
Lower my eyes.
Quicker. Thinner.
Dragged at her speed.
Legs so long.
Yelling. Night. Swaddled.
His panting, her gasping.
My legs aching.
Night. Day. Night.
Picnic. Forage. Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
The rice. The handout.
The hand-me-down.
The crush.
No rice. Rice. Sometimes
Rice.
I can't eat that.
It's foul.
It moves.
It moves.
It's protein.
I eat.
I dream of eating.
I draw eating in the dust.
He comes. It fills me. More than the potato peel. More than the onion skin.
She remains cold.
No marrow bones.
Her face turns away.
Won't share my peel.
Hisses to give it back.
I offer. He refuses. I chew, chew, chew
Relief.
Touch where she was.
Space.
We growl at each other.
No bonds.
Just cheese dreams, pineapple dreams, her-smile-dreams, her-warmth-dreams.
Nothing now.
No peel to fill me up.
So yes.
I'll hush.
Smile again.
I'll hush.
Snip...
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1 comment

  • Comment Link flea Tuesday, 24 June 2008 02:00 posted by flea

    arresting imagery, absolutely breathtaking

    Report
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