Friday, November 06, 2009
Three months in the clinic, one should be ready. I look down on you, one more escapade, to go down on you, and sharpen the blade.
[I did not know my nails would have grown so strong].
I grab you -both hands- to feel the skin and fatty, pillow-like juice. I shake you and I pull you out -you nasty rubber- you pull back in. How much bigger can you get? I inhale too deeply for my strength -anymore- and push the air to swell you, happy moments for my kids, indeed. Magnificent, so many years’ confusion. I do not know how the struggles have gotten me here, the struggles of too little food, or the struggles of too many a food.
The fool inside you, is he still there? Memory of a lifetime gulping, shame, retreat. I soothe the grabbing, squeeze a strange spot in a wrinkle and cuddle the umbilical cord.
[I did not know my nails could have grown so big]
I am so sorry to start squeezing you, tummy, all over again. Does my dance stumble -on stone abdominals, on bones, on very full guts?- do not ask me,
[you should know better]
Why don’t you have a mouth on your own? Well, I guess I won’t stand in front of the wall mirror this time, I’ll just grasp the hand one not to feel you mine just as once. Get a mirror on your own, so many actions you do take despite me.
I am so sorry; a tearing would never have crossed my mind -not uncontrolled-
But look at you, (my soul is flying already) smiling at last, silent all these years, so many years struggle I, idle you. Now check your own mirror idol, that two nipples have no eyebrows but do a sight a umbilical nose, check, I say, your bloody grin will soon be hungry, hasn’t it been so all these years of discussion? Shall I run out to show the evil nurses that I, too, have two faces anymore?