Baskets
Even I like this. Yes. With
my hands. My hands my sisters eye
what is held expecting
damage.
This form so unlike
speech in this no longer comfortable
language
feels natural as braiding
young family hair.
Form belonging only
to ourselves. Requiring no explanation.
Because it happened here I begin with
what is here. Palm. And because
of what happened to my own palm.
Palm and branches of available roses.
Painted paper. Paper painted
by my sister with the small floral pattern
of the discarded dress. Purple, white, green,
blue. The last dress she helped me find.
The one even I felt feminine inside. I
hardly ever wear one any more. Barbara
notices. Misunderstands
the repetition of a few safe clothes. Always
loose. Never ironed. Announces
she is going to do what I do. Wear
just anything she wants. I am reminded:
Want has had little
to do with my recent life. Nothing
to do with my wardrobe. I wear
what I can. Clothes as symptom not
statement. I do not complete
the oval. Leave the slope of shape
open. Or, unfinished.
But this is not just
another broken object in the house.
Remembrance does not basket up neatly.
I assumed weaving might guide me somewhere
beyond language.
I believed I believed if I made this basket if
I held the rape in my hands.
I suppose I hoped to feel
something. Actual
tears. Not expecting
just the usual
bloodshed. Cut up hands.
Unwise choice of material.
I study my palms
the broken life line the line that split
marked proof death of the raped woman is
no fantasy. The body knows more than the world.
This fading line remains.
Reminds me:
There is an unburied woman in this house.
A body is denying a woman a marked grave.
The life line sometimes splits, it says
in Elementary Palmistry, when there is
a move to another country.
I love you, Donald says. I love you,
Barbara says. I say
nothing. Want only
to get away.
I don't know the woman
they talk about and they never met
the woman I can almost on a good day remember
being.
I am reminded:
A woman deserves a grave. The body needs
to cry. The palm conceals nothing.
The rapist who does not kill is the real
murderer.
Frances Driscoll
Contents | Mudlark No. 2
Spotting Ray | Parochial Air