Someone
turned a key
in me
undid my bundle
let it fall
and I did not like it--
being so neat and folded.
I did not see him
sneaking up
let satyr get me
in his cups
tipped, spilled
made a stain
was best asleep
now wide awake
more than willing
to share titbits
from my plate--
peel him a grape
anything
but this frozen state
and the empty
standing
still.
d3mill
Sunday, June 20, 2010
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The sun is almost down – the humid air is dark blue and flitters with mozzies.
ReplyDeleteShe pulls the Falcon into the drive and hauls the groceries out of the boot, limping slightly as she heads up the pathway to unlock the front door.
Inside, the kitchen stays dark for a few seconds as the new energy-saving bulb wakes up, so the photos of children and drawings plastered on the fridge and the wall seem to fade in from black, like in a movie.
She lights a cigarette, then leaves it burning on the sink while she unpacks the shopping and starts dinner.
She eats in the lounge room, watching A Current Affair with grave attention. Her lip curls in an unconscious sneer during one story about a Lebanese drunk driver. During the ad breaks she mutes the TV out of habit, and then the only sound is the faint clicking in her jaw as she chews.
After dinner she reads for a long time, then hauls herself out of the recliner to do the washing up. It’s nine o’clock and she has work early tomorrow morning.
She switches on her bedroom light and walks past the door without glancing in. One half of the queen-sized bed is tidy; the other is covered with a dozen or so men's garments laid out haphazardly. Hidden out of sight below the clothes are several sand bags.
Further down the hallway she’s brushing her teeth in the bathroom. She spends several minutes washing her face and putting on night cream. When she’s finished she dabs Old Spice after-shave on the back of her neck. She uses the toilet with the door open, then heads to the bedroom.
On the side-table is an alarm clock, an ugly clay ashtray one of the kids had made at school, and a half-empty pack of smokes. She sets the alarm clock, then lights another smoke and leaves it to burn over the ashtray.
The house is completely silent.
At the other side of the room is a small chest of drawers with a little TV on top. She switches it on; SBS are playing live footage of a soccer match between two unnamed countries many thousands of kilometers away. For a moment she watches and tries to feel the distance between herself and the screaming crowds.
She turns the light off and climbs into the tidy side of the bed, closing her eyes to the noise from the TV.
She breathes in slowly through her nostrils. The smell of cigarette smoke and aftershave.
The weight of the sand bags on the other side of the bed takes on its own presence in the dark. It forms a dimple in the mattress that pulls at her slightly.
After some time she begins to drift off. She mumbles “Don’t forget to turn the TV off when you’re done, babe,” and tugs sleepily for her share of the blanket.