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



"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))