that deeply felt, deeply denied hunger for things—any thing really, but really cheap small things to pack in trunks—left me staring late late—much too late for i was but a babe, already much much too tall—
at the twinkling lights
on the tree
at the end of the hall.
down this hall—our only hall, its walls felt like paper—my awareness floated, while i remained stable, frozen in the bed with the aunt. not just in my mind, that tree sprouted, the little gangly lot, draped at its bottom for decency, surrounded by christmas packages, flirting with me like girls who truly don’t want girls but what the hell do i care. suspended there, i felt like donna reed—though i certainly wouldn’t have known her by that name then—and wished, to the writer’s current embarrassment, that i weren’t fat.
(disgusting.)
growing bored with my self even then, i stuck my hands down my pajamas to find that little hard cap, recently discovered, to be grasp when thinking of the boys or of food or of words. i rolled round, roughly, tubing myself in the sheet, tightening myself, elevated and uncaring. breathe did not come quick as i was still learning all the uses of my little nob, had only stuck so far a fingertip in my cleft, so i’m unsure why exactly the aunt freed herself from slumber long enough to ask what i was doing, turn over, and, again, mentally exit the scene.
i felt like donna reed.
a large bellied child but not really a child at all, eula grew confused, reading right to left, grew backwards, beginning things how they were supposed to end, starting out much less adolescent than she ended up. and wasn’t that such a fine idea? because people treated her exactly like they weren’t supposed to, and being treated unwisely creates that which is most wise.
that is, dessert for breakfast gives cavities but also a sugary slant, crystals dispersing the light just right. and meatloaf for breakfast gives sluggishness but also a pace that just might save your life.
what she is basically saying is stand on your own head literally and you’ve never been so grounded.
and eula, the sun-haired un-child child, kept an even-handed face until exactly the time when she was supposed to keep her eyes peeled. then, blindly right off target went her sight. because, a corner-living child, she missed her vampire days of shadowing animated life as pain is the greatest pleasure and the muscle of every great conversation.
but, then again, eula says so many things that they all touch the mind chime eventually.
they queue up and grow impatient, complaining of the elements, telling us in shabby voice that they just won’t stand it any longer; but better when their fidgeting can be channeled into calm with slow ache—give them parasols, the little hands of children, multifunctional devices, and popcorn (oh! butter and salt dints in crevices and on screens) to fondle until all you hear is unwavering, wonderfully negligible moan.
they say you miss the ticks when you don’t watch the clock, but these eyes file detail until the picture is just collage. yes, desire is delay, delay desire, this dally, but when i can fix and re-fix, pile and re-pile, order and re-order, oh! the threat of the loss of the monotonous! because things do happen, don’t they? my brother leaping out from the same spot (behind the washing machine) twice didn’t lessen the jolt. what leaves brain breadcrumbs and what is just bird food?
the year that i suffered (that is to say, sustained) a clean house, my most content year yet.
the feeling began in the kitchen, a little twinge, a little trickle of not-quite-pain. i distract myself with noodles in a pot of boiling water, red sauce waiting in the wing for issue, a little abstract painting. ten minutes. ten minutes.
the trickle, however, won’t wait, already perched behind my stomach and knocking on the door to my spine, to my legs, even sneaking across my brain lawn to leave me steaming with the creeps. abandon the bubbles; turn off the lamp; take it easy.
here, fevered dreams of the bland—paper packaging and doorbells and simple lettuce, tomato, cheese delight. upon waking, i don’t wait. and oh, the wonder!
but with the first half perfect, i dawdle too long with the second. firm into flexible; brisk into balmy; frosty into flaccid. seeds of doubt again planted for what grows in you when i tarry?
such a frenzy, more melting. so i whisper devotion to my soft spot and chew us out of the dewy night.
