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The atavist

Lara Zankoul “The Noone”

 

I lived once

in a room that was

in a house that was

in a snow globe

my little schneekugel—

 

Each pale pink shutter

glistened with sunrise

each window held a candle

that didn’t burn—

cheer was a 24 hour thing

everything always new

and no dust settles

under saline water—

a dirt free life

is happy

and I twirled

from hedge to hedge

and door to door

invisible behind

thin sheets of plastic

and thick walls of paint.

 

My house had steps

three pretty little things

never slimy,

never have they

bruised a knee—

 

You cannot see my room

caked between the drawing

and the baths

I was happy in the hall—

in my torte existence

I painted birds on the ceiling

and when you turned the key

they sang

and each song

was different—

and I listened

with twenty ears

to your breath

as it fogged

and moistened the glass—

spring would come then

and melt again

as your finger

drew a giant heart

in the frost.

 

My snow is pink and green

transparent—

turning

throwing

gold tint to my eyes

clogging up the chimney

exploding and imploding

with the movement

of your hand—

the push and pull

and squirts of mitochondrion

flapping around

the cytoskeleton of time

 

Your trees never lose

their leaves

as my world is perpetually turned

upside down—

their evergreen glow

which I’m sure has

some metaphysical meaning,

remains the tightly packed shape

they were molded to

by God & Co.

as is the teacup

on my bedside table

perched on a precipice

but oh so safe

in my fury.

Because the truth is,

from a row of a hundred

perfectly safe worlds,

you chose mine

and paid for it,

mastercard man—

becoming in a single password

owner of all

that I know

my world powered by you

and the energizer bunny—

Under a glass quilt I remain myself

in total knowledge of the fakeness

of my silicone tears.

 

A crack in my window

leaks rainbow drifts

onto my pillow

and I would love to

feel the cold or air

because they wouldn’t be yours

but no one’s

and that would be petrifying—

what remains

is to stare into the TV

funny square

used to making clown faces

but recently

yours – atomic change

unseen because of course,

the living room

is painted shut.

My globe world is smooth

digging for gold

brings up loctite

cementing shut

my watery happiness—

swinging naked from

the chandelier

over the staircase

I fall

bouncing back up

bubble bird red

agonizing over lost hours

and begging to forget

O little town of Bethlehem

even as it stands

beside me

a slightly bigger ball—

Mary is tired

of holding up the baby

the three kings

are late for work

and Joseph yawns,

his thoughts already

on tomorrow’s

table and chair

useless because

his feet are glued

to the glued sand—

and Mary’s back hurts.

They look at me in anger

not waving back,

because you never

turn their world

but turn yourself

to theirs

and it’s boring,

even the angel rolls it’s eyes

and winks—

 

Since the hypnosis

of my world is loud,

sound tears out of

every badly soldered mouth

and no carol

can make it better—

 

And because you know

you don’t hear

what I do

but I hear all—

each whimper

of a dinner fork and knife

against your plate,

each yawn the spoon makes

as it passes her crusty lips

every note I memorize

of your mediocre,

terrifying life

replayed on my

fake violin strings

I pluck

with molded fingers.

 

© – Magda Wolak 2014. Click here to view more of Magda’s work or to contact her.

 

Image by Lara Zankoul. Click here to view more of Lara’s work or to contact her.