The Green in Black

I look for the green tinge in the black paint. When it isn’t there, I know my eyes have adjusted, finally. I feel my hind legs straighten almost all the way, which is supposed to be a sign of something. Then there is the fur that comes out in clumps whenever I touch the skin underneath. Could the energy of it rupture something as sibling as these quick moments woven into one another?

*

The bonds between cells which the plant material releases are wet paint, never had a chance to harden, crushed beneath a stride.

*

There is no healing. Not for anyone in this world. The work of healing is distraction, an occupation like any other, towards an empty eventual fall, a failing, there is no healing, not from anything. There is the moment of being passed through by life, and there is chemistry, and there is the no-longer.

*

I reach into your solar plexus all the way up to my elbow, and I hear the gushing, when my arm comes out it is coated with mud, and the touch of the world dries the mud so quickly it pinches my skin like tiny slaps before it crackles and flakes off, dusting my feet.

*

So little in the grain of the table is free from association with the things I own as a girl, these thighs, the striation in the skin goes both ways, up-down-left-right, and then some associative, diagonal nonsense.

*

My teapot is somewhat green, my cup is black. There are other colours and tints in all of this, like silver and white, but those don’t blend in with previously written words.

*

I think of the fact that I’ve never liked drinking from straws, or sucking at those water bottles that come with nubs. I’ve not been fed by breasts that way, I’ve been fed by rubber, and I’ve had enough, I think, of all this sucking.

I’m hungry, not for the difficult pull that constricts the throat and makes eyes bulge, but for the wide gulp of liquid tumbling in, the flow inward, unconstricted, a fall the size of an apple, into the mouth open as a well.

*

I don’t close my eyes during daylight hours. There is too much that could be missed, and I still haven’t earned my passport to life, after all I have spent years not really partaking, feeling so separate that I was convinced I would never die. Now every beam is something to be soaked up, something to be put aside for later use. As you can tell, I still postpone, but at least I consider the world something to be partaken in, in whatever way I can.

*

Money can be thrown at objects and it places them into your hand, it’s like magic. Food can be put into the mouth, then ferried into the stomach, and from there into the blood. It’s amazing. I can drink and speak and hear and see. I don’t know what to do with any of what I take on, but I’ll take it, who am I to say no?

*

I leave the day with armfuls of objects and words and pictures and thoughts, and I arrange them around my body every night in bed just in case I don’t wake up, and this is my way of saving my family and friends the effort to decide what to put in my grave.

*

We are Egyptian still, never got over that side of ourselves, and we still surround our dead with things, and I surround myself to pretend I live, just like the dead wear sheets and makeup, because it is spooky to look at them with their bones so slack in their faces, looking loose like the earth that calls them home to it.

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Birdearth and Boudmo

Birds pull worms from the wet earth, loosening the seams that hold the world together. The world is fabric made from disparate pieces sewn into a unified joy, but the birds pulling at worms unstitch the composition, cause the continents to drift apart in island shards, and the body too splits in half along a winding seam, the soft drapes of its flesh now open in raw edges, budding with teeth. Two matching rows of teeth, zipped down and apart by the irresistible force of aching beaks. The teeth chatter to reveal their presence, unheard because no ear has time when the mouth is open. The teeth try to clamp back down on their mirror peers but cannot reach, and in their yearning they shudder like cymbals, like sequins on a spinning dress.

****

In other news, I never seem to get sick of this: https://youtu.be/OwCSkQpnWvk

Glue

I figured I would make a habit of dumping a bunch of old stuff on here, mostly tiny old things I can’t be bothered to edit into something more meaningful, so with that in mind:

***

She lays the needles on the table, digs two fingers into my pulse.

Show me your tongue. It’s what I thought. Your tongue is orange, like the belly of a slug.

I ask her how bad this is, and she smiles with her hand over the needles.

It just means, she says, that your heart is broken in several places, all mending together badly.

I tell her to treat it, make it go away for a while, take off my mind this badly mending heart, like a face reconfiguring itself after a crash.

If I treat it, will you still want to know what lies ahead?

I tell her I will. I have no way of proving this.

I thought so, she says. You’re that kind of person.

What kind of person, I ask.

She pulls out a ruler and measures my forearm.

The kind, she says, that’s afraid to be forsaken.

She measures, scratches notes onto loose paper.

Relax your hand, she says, why are you so tense?

A finger, then a needle, pokes between my tendons.

You body, she tells me, is full of holes. Wind and heat. Wind and heat are holes, and everything inside you is too thin. There is nothing to dam the growth of emptiness.

She punches another needle in a few points above the first one, then looks up as I rearrange myself on the table to shift away from the pressure on my spine.

Again and again a man will destroy you, she says, though not the same man, and never completely.

She sniffles and observes the pattern her needles make on my skin.

Lie still. Your Qi is all over the place. In fact, you are all over the place, leaking out of yourself like crushed entrails, it’s disgusting, keep it together.

I think I laugh at her words, why shouldn’t I? It’s a miracle that sound can escape me at all. Her eyes pull her head towards the window.

It was supposed to rain she says.

I know, I say, it never rains.

They ought to fix the roads, she says, on my way here I ran over so many dips in the tarmac. If only it rained, it would fill them up. If only it rained for days. A rain thick and dense like glue.   

Funeral Bee [Prelude to Sibel]

It is cold and behind the hills the golden rays have turned to rust. The party is over. The men are groaning corpses on the couch, men you herded into our house using the sway of your hips, wordless promises they followed like a trail. We trip over them on our way to the fridge. You see me sitting in a corner, my small body compressed so as to appear invisible, not making a sound, and for a moment your eyes aren’t those of a mother.

Darling, you say, be a good girl and show them out.

You disappear to your bedroom with a carton of milk and leave me in the midst of your men. I unwrap myself from my arms and get up. I look down at the discarded, watch the slow breathing of carcasses.

My body is still shorter than yours, but I have been growing, my frame is light, my limbs are skinny. Your hips are rounded, your thighs heavy with sap. They are not my hips or thighs, but if genes are anything to go by I will one day grow up to look just like you.

The men hang around the corner store by the handful, one faceless buzzing cloud, and you sail through them, the sway of your hips a sticky imprint on their heat-worn minds. You feel their humid breath graze your skin, their abdomens pulling towards you, ready to sting. You laugh them off every time. You make a game of it, but never a commitment, until one day one of them is not like the others, and you let him in. Into your mind, into our home.

His dart shot straight into you, sealed you up like heavy wine. Nailed you shut like a coffin.

After him there were many others, but it wasn’t the same. Because he had been different and they were not. They sailed through our house, our lives, in and back out, rubbed against you, against our food and furniture, they stayed for dinner, some of them stayed the night.

Then autumn came and the cold washed them out, they faded with the light, sometimes leaving half-smoked cigarettes next to the couch, sticky fingerprints on a glass, taking cash with them, or the contents of the fridge. Corpses with pockets as deep as their ability for love was shallow.

Take them out, you tell me. You don’t even bother to whisper, pointing at them like residue. The sit and blankly stare, the patterns on their skin are spinning, the colour fading from their eyes. They are bodies but already they barely exist.

We’re not a hotel, you say, because what we are is a hive, your hips the hive from which we came, my sister and me and our home in its entirety, you hold us all between the bones of your hips, in the exact midst of being held and being crushed. Your hips could hold a universe, and to us, they do, they hold a home.

In springtime, when the men are strong you need them close to you, and in summer you indulge their presence, and when the light starts growing dim and their strength starts to fade so does your patience. Their wings now fail them, their faces incapable of kissing, of even a smile. I drag them to the door with diligence, their heaviness strapped to my tender back, I carry them over the threshold of our hive and I let go.

In the cold rushes of early winter air I watch their bodies tumbling down along the street, further and further away from the hive, removed from our home like a stain, tumbling down through the dark air into what cannot be other than a void.