Poetry Magazine, Christina Conrad, Holiday 2001

Poetry Magazine

Christina Conrad

AUSTRALIA

http://conradpoetry.cjb.net

rolling melons

in my family
no one possessed
large bosoms
mine were small & hard
later they grew
from an ardent wish
to possess melons

they rolled
on my mother’s
oak table
shocking her
into removing
bread & butter
demanding to know
if i was pregnant at 48
i who had given birth
to so many

nurturing each child
to the age of 7

sorrow & guilt
accumulated
blowing up
wickedness
until she was
disproportionate

holey singlet

when my mother
could not tolerate tantrums
any longer
she sent me to stay
with my grandmother

squat
heavily powdered
dead white
black hat
jammed
low
on head
black
eyes
glistening
behind her
veil

at night
she knelt
praying
in a holey
vest
flesh falling
down
on dark floor
silver & jet rosary
swaying

warlike
i lay
on her bed
staring through
her
holey
vest
longing for a glimpse
of sacred places

on her index finger
a rose gold ring
vied for
light

between window & blind
darkness
streamed

high
on white plaster wall
sweet jesus
simpered
bleeding heart
dripping blood

under a heavy
black
crucifix
i silently wept

in her living room
‘mongst black
antique furniture
mona lisa
stared
gas heater
hissed
blue flame
licking
in & out

she told me about
wicked people
banished in hell

in a black scuttle
lumps of coal
mirrored
writhing snakes
cupid
fired an arrow
dante & beatrice
strolled

confined in metal frame
her
sumptuous
breasts

a heavy ash
of
bird seed
lay on the furniture
2 budgerigars
1 blue
1 yellow
flew twittering
round the room
perching on my grandmothers
head
they spoke
in disconnected
voices

terrified of birds
from hell
i crouched
watching her devour
a huge plate of cauliflower
&
white sauce
bosom heaving
feet jammed
in
fur lined slippers

she rented a room
to an indian
from oxford
rarely seen

the door to his room
was shut
though i stared
long
at his bakelite doorknob

when he entered
her living room
light dazzled round him
his cello
voice
plucking tones
unheard before
the budgerigars
encircling
screaming
pretty boy pretty boy

she offered him
fruitcake
his fine
blue black hands
hovering
above
thick yellow
almond icing

in the tall
gilt cage
a white cuttle seed swung

round flat tin

my mother never opened her door
to travelling salesmen
she had once opened her door
to a rawleighs man
he told her
he had a special cleaner
that would rid her of fly poo
she would not let him
open his voluminous bag

i longed to possess
a flat round tin of
pink rawleighs ointment

my mother said
rawleighs men were rough

when the hindu man
pulled up outside in his van
my mother leapt up his portable steps

inside the van
his long knife flashed
as he cut open
a pink watermelon
his dark face
his white teeth
his scales shook

as he weighed
the heavy fruit
black seeds
spilled

heavy fruit

i was an angry baby
blue vein twitching
between eyes

my mothers bosom
was not bountiful
she fed me with
boiled silverbeet juice

too ugly to photograph
i screamed & vomited

my sister possessed
a full moon face
they loved her

arrow in the heart

when i left new york
i carried 12 yellow moons
over the water
1 sheared beaver…
coat
memories of a tribal life
arrow in the heart
1 pair of chewed leather boats
blood red shoelaces
1 round scarred table
with
animal legs

memories of a tribal life
arrow in the heart

2 long black coffins
bodies of my paintings
laid
inside
30 years a vegetarian
devouring crumbed soya
cutlets
out of a cardboard
box
the youngest son says
your sheared beaver…
coat
is valuable
there is a ban on
killing
beavers
don’t throw it away
like you do everything else

when i left new york
i carried
12 yellow moons
over the water
1 sheared beaver… coat

memories of a tribal life
arrow in the heart

30 years a vegetarian

in sydney
fish jump out of water
show
teeth
in neon waves

brush of thorns

who braids your hair
who braids your hair
not your lover
not your lover
why vanity braids my silver hair
with toothless comb
brush of thorns

when i look in the mirror
i see
death straddling life
i see drowned ones
clutching
my silver hair

a headless man
in a horsehair coat
drags the pond
with a blood red net

who braids your hair
who braids your hair
not your lover
not your lover
why vanity braids my silver hair
with toothless comb
brush of thorns