DAILY DUTY Her head covered. SHE says: I am blinded by the glare of the white washing – the white sheets and the white pillow cases, the white bedspread and my white underwear, my camisole and my petticoat – on the line in the morning when I hang it out. Sometimes you can see me in my straw hat and my dark Ray-ban glasses, in my long-sleeved top, my arms uplifted in the air, my face upturned to the sun. SHE says: I am pierced by the sharp, the long, the hard bristles of the grass broom, the long- handled grass broom that I bought from the street seller, the broom that descends upon the wooden floor, that comes down out of the blue onto the stoep, the stone steps into the garden, like a wolf upon the fold. Sometimes you might find me backed into a small corner of a room, or crouched at the bottom of a steep flight of stairs, fending off the fierce bristles of the broom with my bare skin, with my little brittle bones. SHE says: I am broken by the old bodies, the dry and the hard bodies of the dead geckos and lizards that lie, crushed and dry, flat and dry as cardboard, crushed by an accidental door, a window, door-jamb or lock. Sometimes you might come upon me on my hands and knees checking the underneath of the front door, the inside jamb of the big bedroom window before I close them and lock them with my padlock and my big key. SHE says: I am scalded by the steam from the iron that fills the kitchen every night after dinner, after homework, after story-time and prayers, hissing like an engine, like Thomas the Train, spitting in my eyes like his fat red snake. Sometimes you may think that these are tears, these sharp drops that pack my eyes, that I am unhappy, but actually it is just smoke, just steam from the fire he makes with his hands. SHE says: I am drowned by the grey aquarium of the kitchen sink, with its long narrow knives, the spoons with one eye on top of their heads, the bulbous soup bowls and flat plates, a school of brightly-coloured cups that swarm all over my fingers and up my arms like greasy little tadpoles. Sometimes but only if you are lucky, you will find me on my back, with my goggles and my flippers and my plastic gloves, breathing through the hole between my legs. SHE says: I am choked by the dust that clogs up the vacuum cleaner, that blocks the suction pipe and the filter with fluff and dog hair and flakes of human skin that slough off continually, renewing our shape until one day we are unrecognisable and different. Sometimes you may happen to walk past and assume it is me because I look the same as the person you talk to on the telephone, but oh, on the inside, on the inside it’s all stuffed pipes and tied tubes and pressure building up, and if you were to suddenly unstop me, why, like a pink balloon I’d fart my way around the room, and then psshhhht go flat. SHE says: Plug me in. There. Fill me up. Switch me on. Here. And I’ll purr for you like an over-locker. See how I run. © 2013, Kobus Moolman
Posted on: Sat, 26 Oct 2013 16:34:12 +0000
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