Christina Conrad New Zealand |
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round flat tin my mother never opened her door to travelling salesmen she had once opened her door to a Rawleighs man he told her he had a special cleaner that would rid her of fly poo she would not let him open his voluminous bag i longed to possess a flat round tin of pink rawleighs ointment my mother said rawleighs men were rough when the hindu man pulled up outside in his van my mother leapt up his portable steps inside the van his long knife flashed as he cut open a pink watermelon his dark face his white teeth his scales shook as he weighed the heavy fruit black seeds spilled holey singlet (about my grandmother who wasn't my grandmother) when my mother could not tolerate tantrums any longer she sent me to stay with my grandmother squat heavily powdered dead white black hat jammed low on head black eyes glistening behind her veil at night she knelt praying in a holey vest flesh falling down on dark floor silver & jet rosary swaying Warlike i lay on her bed staring through her holey vest longing for a glimpse of sacred places on her index finger a gold ring vied for light between window & blind darkness streamed high on white plaster wall sweet jesus simpered bleeding heart dripping blood under a heavy black crucifix i silently wept in her living room 'mongst black antique furniture mona lisa stared gas heater hissed blue flame licking in & out she told me about wicked people banished in hell in a black scuttle lumps of coal mirrored writhing snakes cupid fired an arrow dante & beatrice strolled confined in metal frame her sumptuous breasts a heavy ash of bird seed lay on the furniture 2 budgerigars 1 blue 1 yellow flew twittering round the room perching on my grandmothers head they spoke in disconnected voices terrified of birds from hell i crouched watching her devour a huge plate of cauliflower & white sauce bosom heaving feet jammed in fur lined slippers she rented a room to an indian from oxford rarely seen the door to his room was shut though i stared long at his bakelite doorknob when he entered her living room light dazzled round him his cello voice plucking tones unheard before the budgerigars encircling screaming pretty boy pretty boy she offered him fruitcake his fine blue black hands hovering above thick yellow almond icing in the tall gilt cage a white cuttle seed swung drowning in oil (for Ruth) in school i sat next to a girl called ruth white tennis dress one blackhead on a roman nose told me her mother possessed a blackhead remover said she loved whole wild mutton birds her father ordered them from the south island whole wild mutton birds drowning in oil pressed close in kerosene tins eyes wings hearts legs claws feathers her small golden hands lay on the desk i didn't know i was to become a vegetarian black knickers (to Paola) down 2 flights of stairs i fall into your room your jewels of lapis lazuli & amber lie in the dust your black knickers are thrown over books of knowledge by the legs of your desk a naked heater grins a kauri cupboard spills velvet dresses whispering of love i lie with you not knowing who is mother or daughter in dreams i seek your arms little matriarch swollen mattress (to krishna & julius) the old house hid behind a barbary hedge spikey with thorns squatting on a stoney mound humming in a high seething voice under a leaking pie shaped roof peeling walls exposing fleshy slabs of blushing wood baked by sun lit by moon her gloating cracks seeping sticky with sap stark naked windows revealing shadowy figures chimney pitching into skies netted rose an ancient lemon tree bearing stiff nippled lemons hung in grey lichen ghost trees walked the gate heavy within memories tied together with string legs sunk into earth under a fading green lintel a broken door swung door knob rattling in socket big iron key stuck in keyhole one fell into a dim spidery hallway colliding with a full bellied brandy barrel stuffed with dried figs in long yellow wooden boxes dried bananas pressing close as sardines the interior of the house was cool - deep a pentagonal room struck by oblique light the black gasping fireplace full of thin white arms of wood the yearning floor heaved shimmered one groped over knots - viens fell in & out of holes beneath the crossed window a black iron bedstead stood on taut legs bearing a swollen mattress and 3 wheezing feather quilts |
All works copyrighted Christina Conrad 2001 Used with kind permission of Poet |
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