not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Sunday, April 3, 2011

bottom left


i live here.  me, my name is france delapaux.  i am twenty-seven.  i live with my mother, three sisters, and my brother, alphonse.  my father is a swine.  i see him time to time in the gutter.  that is fine by me.  worthy of the streets.  i, i work hard.  i erase my past with every footstep i take, except for my mother.  i will always carry my mother and for this she is not my past but rather always by my side.  i love her.  but she becomes smaller than me every day.  i see her disappearing, although she always has a smile on her face.  i smile back down distant hallways.  i lay on my bed.  i touch my breasts.  i own me. no man will ever own me again. my mother lays in her bed alone.  her lamp is out. i read late into the night.  i go to work dreary eyed and am teased.  they think it is a boy.  it is!  it is all sorts of boys and men, and even women, Dostoevsky, Hemingway, Faulkner, McCarthy, Anais Nin, even Kingsolver.  i don't discriminate.  i lay with them all.  i am a wild lover who has never left home, who has never once said yes to a man.  this is my window.  you've never, even in your mind, touched a woman like me, a woman who is made just like this.  and you never will.  i won't let you.

1 comment:

  1. this is a hard story
    full of abuse and
    surfaced damaged strength

    it leaves me alone
    in the dark

    ~robert

    ReplyDelete

"Words at the limit of hearing, attributable to no one, received in the conch of the ear like dew by a leaf." (philippe jaccottet) or even a quiet presence is appreciated))