Once upon a time, we lived in a land of feasts, and I went from one to the other, eating from this table, that, happy in my gluttony. My mother worried. What about men, she said, marriage? Rapunzel, Rapunzel, all day long you taste, taste marshmallow and mascarpone, caramel and kuchen, sugar and sweetness. What about a man's skin, his lips?
Mother locked me in a tower, made me fast, exercise.
But my flesh did not melt. It kept jiggling, jostling for space. Under my breasts, at my ankles, around my knees. My body dented, dimpled, cleft. So much me, so many slices and servings.
Mother paced like a crow.
“Who's supplying you?" she cawed, "A frog, a witch, a dwarf?”
She flapped away in disgust.
Then he came, the man I adored. He brought pallets of pies, barrels of butter cream, kilderkins of custard and jam.
He stood beneath my window, sang, Oh, My Sweetness, My Completeness. Let down your lovely flesh. My hand descended, and he climbed on.
How could I know Mother was hiding in the bushes? She picked up a rock, two, threw, struck. My beloved fell fast, faster. I blinked, and he was dead, his body broken, his pies shattered. Oh, his custards and jams!
I punched through the tower's brick walls, ripped apart the wooden ceiling, the linoleum floor.
Mother fled.
I grew tall and thin. My sharp teeth tore down towns, gulped oceans, crumbled mountains.
At night, I roam from country to city, city to country. I brush my fingers along the tree tops, roofs. I bend down, whisper through the leaves, in the windows, Oh, Mother, Mother. I am hungry. I will eat your skin, your lips, your heart.
Nan Wigington lives in a large retirement community and volunteers as a tour guide at the neighboring cemetery. Her work has appeared in Nunum, Molotov Cocktail, and Tiny Molecules.
No comments:
Post a Comment