Watches myself from that dislocated place above and behind my own shoulder, mirrors everywhere so there is never a doubt whose ass it is that's been placed out on the firing line.  Go-to-Girl steps in, cleans the mess, picks up the clothes, sweeps and gets a repair kit to "fix it all up".  The one below from where I fly lifts her shoulders and sighs.  This film is on a loop which never melts; never that clattering catch of sprockets, never orange and black smoking bubbles. She stoops and lifts and rescues yet another tear-filled victim, pulls them up, hugs and kisses.  "I know"s "Yes it does"s and "It never gets better but it will be forgotten with luck" echo and dance in refrains.  That pretty thing below has done this all before.

The list of sufferers, those who lack some object of necessity hinted at, pouted over; the list is a rival to Saint Peter's but not to Satan's. There is some aspect of being the short tough one, the defender, the one who argues the most ardently but never leads.  In the mirrors I check her face, I scrutinize her breast; is there some other letter than 'A' that signifies what she does? Perhaps because of my involvement it's invisible, perhaps from here above, it remains unseen.

She's the one that the boys used to go to, when that desired date wasn't available; the one that would let them fondle without objection. She's the one that so much later, became the punch line, the punch bag, the punchy one when just a little drunk.  She's the one the girls would whisper about, avoid in public and then spread for in dark party corners with her gloss left on parts so tender.

What of me? I never fled, I never shouted guilt and anger while in dissociated flight above and behind her.  That's not me, I'll drop in later when some other role takes need; when pleasing yields to pressure and she takes a breather.  I'll put the dust bin out beside the curb, with the body parts carefully concealed. I'm the one with the well-oiled wood chipper. I'm the one who feeds.

© Amanda 2012
9.23.2012







Narrowed in fogged rainy concentration, grey glows in hunger

   

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