I am watching her lick her blood off the floor and I am
thinking: it is a marvel that the nose can lose so much and
remain intact I am thinking: what is a fist a shoe a foot a book
what is a belt a wooden spoon a frying pan if not a kind of
missile. what is war if not everything that comes after it. I am
watching her stand between me and pain and she is small but
determined she is all raised chin and frown set mouth and
grinding teeth and I am thinking: you cannot save anyone you
cannot break suffering into even halves you cannot redirect a
storm when you are living in it. I am watching her play at
cheeky her tongue a momentary waggle immediately
regretted as the hand rises to meet it; I am watching the
laughter fall out of her cheeks and her big big eyes shudder
into expectation and I am thinking: where did you learn such
lightness and why did you think it could live here, with us? I
am watching her body slammed against walls until she learns
to turn violence pre-emptive until her fists are bruises against
her thighs until the scream has gone rancid in her throat until
she is the wall. I am watching her waste away grow fragile and
reedy then brittle and sharp; I am watching her transform
into corners and I am thinking: can you shed the past like kilos
or is trying to a kind of looking away. can you look away? I am
looking at the wall and listening to her in the next room and I
am thinking: the neighbours will hear this and part of me
wants them to and part of me is afraid and I am thinking:
please, be quiet. I am watching her slice off her excess which
is flesh yes but joy too frivolity wonder the upward quirk of a
mouth in full bloom and I am thinking it is a marvel that a girl
can lose so much and remain I am thinking what is a girl but
a body a fist a mouth big big eyes and all the yearning caught
in her throat.

Read the rest of Overland 245

If you enjoyed this piece, buy the issue

Or subscribe and receive