Poems

Lace

One Syllable Prose

Lace

The girl tears at the white pulp of dead trees, in wet sight. Each jerk of her wrists is a slice through the cold black type and the flakes are a frost on the floor. A sob swells from her gut to cling to the rear of her teeth and the crest of her tongue, like a man on a ledge in fear of the fall. Her scream fears the plunge that release would bring. The hands of the clock pulse the air in the room to the beat of the blood in her ears. Each dull thud sounds with more strength and speed than the last, to a noise so great and thick, it is still. An age slips past the girl. She is lost, lone and nude, in the pit of her mind. When the stream of time has come to a drought, she is quite where she was: fixed to the floor, gaunt in the harsh light. The world has rained and dried, and she and the caked sand are left. Her eyes still run and her voice is still caged. Her hands still tear. Her nails plead with the note, pull and pry, till naught is left. Blind to this, she works her nails into her skin. Shreds of flesh dust her feet. Her blood starts to ooze and the drops on the tile drag her back from her fog.

No. She must not fade. She flicks her hands, lets out a swell from her lungs, and evens her spine. The girl strides through the white frills to the sink and fills a pot for tea. The knob of the stove sticks and she has to force it on. Vile words flash her eyes: It is with grief that we may not grant you your claim to your son...with great thought, we have deemed you not apt to care for him...your

wage too low...his health...he needs firm watch...you can not do it...you can not care for him...you can not care for him...you can not care for him…

NO MORE! Her mind screams. She slams the pot on the heat coil. The splash, a hiss in the flame. Her lungs wave and her hands shake. She grasps for a mug on the shelf, and then, with her raw nails, pries the lid off the tea bag tin. Her back arched, she grips the bar of the stove and waits for the rage to pass. By the time she hears the hiss of a boil, her toes are still curled . Close your eyes. Two breaths in, two breaths out. She flicks her eyes wide and the clear blue sparks with tears. She pours the hot rain into her cup and wraps the tea with her scald shy hands.

The wood chair creaks from the weight of her pain. Sleep is all she wants, but tea is all she has. Dreams call to her, they float past her worn mind. Dreams of swings and smiles. Dreams of small hands and small feet. Dreams of fights, and dreams of flight-from her and her nest-when she has taught all she could. She dreams of the life she tore from her own hands. A life that now lies in lace at her feet. Wrecked like the white writ. Her hands start to shake once more and the lost itch creeps up her spine, aches her lungs, cracks her lips, and dries her tongue. No!That’s why you are here, you dumb bitch! She has not felt that urge, that vast want in years. The crave ceased the first time she heard her son cry. But by then it was too late; they took him. She walked out of the ward with bare arms. Sweat slips down her brow. If she could just take it back. Just take it all back!! Each sip. Each puff. Each snort. Each shot. All gone. Tear it from her. Oh God, tear it from me, from my breath and blood. Rip me to lace and sew me back up whole! Her son needs a whole life. Needs her to have a whole life.

A heart with gold peels hangs from her thin neck. Caged is a small sketch, the ends shorn to fit. One raw nail slips in the crack and cleaves the lock free. In the lines of pen, a boy is shown. His eyes small and slanted, his top lip thin. All the signs of FAS fixed in ink. Worn thin, the slip is the only proof he is real and not some cruel dream. She presses the heart to her lips, and gives place to her pain. She did this. She ruined a life. She knows this. It is the source of her grief. She knows this too. She is here for what she did. And no score of tea will fix that. No shred of note.