Dirty Tricks

I give it due reverence. Pull the thorns out in front of the mirror.
The skin changes overnight. Red to brown. Delicious bruises that only I can feel.
A party trick with no balloons. No guests. No pop in a cracked glass. No gifts.
And for my next trick.
Well. There are too many to describe.

This is up. When I touch the shoulder of the man with no teeth and he tries to kiss me.
Down will be next week. When I exchange beans for powder at the supermarket.

Time muddled up with the next person’s shopping.
I find myself in the back of the car. The words ‘I am happy’ printed in the patterns of my bag. I have a lot of bags. He looks at my face. Face. Message. Message face. It doesn’t quite add up.

I try to jump out in order to answer his question.
The one driving says J don’t try my locks.
I stop trying for a while but still my hand keeps testing.

The thorns stop it all. The loss of time. The ride in the car. Crazy neighbour lady pissing outside the front door.

The thorns are all mine. They offer no redemption. But they do keep me safe.
They are markers. Of days lost. Time spent. I count them in. Count them out. Clean them. Kiss them. Wish that they were gone.

Fluid pushes fluid. Just so you know.
You still have to do the laundry. Clear the dishes. Open the front door.
The house is a scrubbed bunker.
The removal man said it’s a home for life.
That thorn bleeds in my side.

The little plan rests on the counter. The tricks worked out.
But my hands stay in my pockets.
The little girl downstairs. She knows my name. She said it when she saw me in the bookshop. Her little eyes see.

I cool the bruises. Keep the beans and not the powder.
I pour cement in my pockets then add my hands.
Blow up balloons and drink glasses of pop.

And for my next trick.
Maybe there will be no magic at all.
Do the laundry. Clear the dishes. Open the front door.
Scrub the thorns until they shine.