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Angela Consolo Mankiewicz |
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When the Pain Stopped I. You were fanning your chapped, airless feet with the hem of your burka - yes, yes, it was hot, but surely, you knew that exposed feet of 12-year-old females would engender lust in passing, otherwise pure, males .... * After they buried your body in sand, up to your childish breasts, how long could you feel your toes ? When they stoned your head how long did it take for the pain to stop? Can you recall how many rocks cut your eyelids, pierced your skull, before the pain stopped? How big were the rocks tearing your lips, ripping your nostrils? Did you hear the cheers praising the splitting of your ears? Did you hear the cheers for the biggest rock, the most jagged, the best aim ? When did you stop hearing anything at all? When did you stop tasting your own blood? Child - Do you remember, can you remember - When did the pain stop? II. When they started skinning you, at what point did you not feel the knife anymore, the knife sliding down your black back? At which vertebrae was it? Or was it at the bony elbow of your left arm or your leg - right leg? * What was it you did? Crack your overseer's skull with a crowbar? look at his wife? walk home after work, after dark? When did you become a model for that figure in Michaelangelo's Last Judgment? That human skin held from the head by a finger, no different from a trophy tiger rug or the trashed fur from an edible hare. Did you cry out? Could you? Did you see those cracker faces laughing at your agony, goading the skinners on? Did you see their kids whoop it up when they strung up your bones? Of course, you never knew of your success, you never heard the grandfatherly stories passed down to the next generation, or saw your photograph in the family album, hanging from a tree with little Billie-Bob giggling by your feet. Better than a carnival and didn't cost a cent. III. And you, peaches and cream, miniature beauty, made up and costumed, a baby queen dancing and singing and smiling. What happened to you? Who did such things to you? You were 6. What did you know? What could have run through your baby head when someone abused you - were you so accustomed to a grating burn in your vagina that it was simply something else you lived with? Who slit your hymen? leaving baby blood on your baby panties? Did you cry? What raced through your baby head when someone flung your baby body against something so hard, so cold to the touch, it split your head open? Why? What was it you did? Do you know that cords were tied around your neck, your wrists? Or were you already too blue to know? Does it matter if you knew? Does it matter who did what? Not to you, Baby Queen. All that matters is the pain stopped. Her First Day in Heaven She opens her eyes on a comfortable bed, just hard enough to support an arthritic back; the 300-thread sheets are a nice touch. Her favorite nightgown smells vaguely of daisies and its whiteness is commendable, even better than if she had washed it herself. She rises and looks at her body in a free-standing mirror: it's still old and too thin after years of over- plumpness, but it's whole and sturdy and functional. She picks up the brochure on the nightstand: lovely grounds, delicately seasoned foods to delight her new-found appetite, attendants on call for any need; she catches a glimpse of her grin in the mirror, the grin of a petty bandit safe with her stash and turns away, stretching herself straight and solemn. A young, amber- haired woman knocks at her door to offer her first breakfast. A nice assortment of toasts and cakes though she prefers milk to cream for her coffee. But ok, it's ok. After all, she just got here, so many details they must have to write down and refer to and remember; after all, she needs no pills here or catnaps or bedpans, so what if cream makes her queasy; she'll be fine after a walk in the garden in those soft, breezy new clothes laid out on the love-seat, pastels though and not exactly her style but impeccably tailored. You can't have everything … maybe not even, here. In the garden, tinted by poppies, others are sitting on embroidered benches, or strolling, exchanging earnest phrases; they see her, greet her, tell her how much they've looked forward to meeting her. She nods, parts her lips, poses. A man offers to guide her beyond the garden, there must be so many people she'd like to see after such a long life. She stiffens. It wasn't that long, and she's sure she can find her way. And who is this man? Or these others, so easily familiar? Beyond the garden, cherry trees blossom predictably under a lush rainbow of light, fragrant warmth cushions walkways. She chooses one, knowing somehow, it is the right one. There, on the footbridge, the form, a woman smiling, cool eyes glistening, contented, yes, Mother. And Mother welcomes her, embraces her, caresses her face, and turns away to continue her stroll toward another form, a woman smiling, cool eyes glistening, contented. She straightens her torso and follows another walkway, speckled with pebbles of cotton. An old man waves, beaming, beckoning, then holds up his hand. She stops on cue with a 5-year old's giggle, her toes twitching with anticipation. The old man tugs an orange off a short, chubby tree; he rolls the bright-scented gift to her; she picks it up, inhales its lushness, looks to him in triumph, but he, of course, is gone. Back in her room, tinted in rose-mist, she reads, listens to the wrong Strauss, waits. She recalls a husband and wonders; she glares at the phone, stares into the garden, at the others, talking, laughing. She picks up the phone and hears a cheery voice, prattling on and on about needs, whatever they may be, whatever, just ask, just say the word, whatever ... she hangs up. 'Just ask', that's what they always say, 'just ask' ... why should I? ... why don't they know .... why don't they ever know? She fondles the eternally lush-smelling orange, wriggles into her commendably white nightgown, and pulls down the shade on blue-misted night. Damn them ... Not even here. |