Scenes from the Lives of a Girl
i
The dead leaves clung to the young girl. They leapt
from the earth to clothe her. The linden and the oak,
elm and sycamore. Every time she arrived home she
was met by her exasperated mother moaning about
the leaves’ flaky deposits in her hallway, the baby slugs,
the not completely dead aphids. “Why don’t you brush
them off before you come home?” Her mother presumed
electricity in some static form had a hand. She never
witnessed the looks of astonishment that greeted her
daughter all along the road as leaves swept themselves up
to envelop her, astonishment too deep to rally an insult
or catcall. Astonishment of a kind no emoji exists for.
ii
When the little terrier snapped and barked, the ten year
old girl’s hair rose suddenly in a wild thicket over
the top of her head, too plentiful and thread-like
to make her Medusa-like. It was not the first time.
Her hair-burst happened only when no one else
was around. When she was five a jackdaw alighted
on her shoulder and cackled quietly with elongated
gurgles. The sensation had been long known to her
but here for the first time she saw her reflection
as it happened, in the low window of a low sportscar
parked alongside. She knew it was something strange
because if it happened to anyone she knew they never
talked about it, so she resolved neither would she.
Long ago she had learnt she can’t will it to happen,
not even through seeking the company of animals
when alone. Always without warning three times a year
it occurs, when she has forgotten to expect it. Someday
she hopes she’ll understand what it means. If it means.
iii
The daughter of the doll vendor hoped to be
bought herself, to be purchased, put in a box
wrapped with a ribbon, to be carried far
from her mother, from her scathing remarks,
unpredictable clouts. She held her eyes open
as long as she could with a glassy stare, wearing
a dress not too dissimilar to some of the dolls.
Her mother sold mannequins too and dolls of all
sizes. And once she almost got lucky. A cigar
chomping American tourist enquired after her price.
Many customers almost reached that point
before noticing her exhaling or going puce from not
exhaling. When her mother caught her doing this
the girl was left with a black eye or a bruised
cheek, the easier to distinguish her from the dolls.
Her favourite companion was a store dummy in a top
hat and a wig of long black tresses, like Morticia Adams.
Now that was the kind of mother she could approve of.
The dead leaves clung to the young girl. They leapt
from the earth to clothe her. The linden and the oak,
elm and sycamore. Every time she arrived home she
was met by her exasperated mother moaning about
the leaves’ flaky deposits in her hallway, the baby slugs,
the not completely dead aphids. “Why don’t you brush
them off before you come home?” Her mother presumed
electricity in some static form had a hand. She never
witnessed the looks of astonishment that greeted her
daughter all along the road as leaves swept themselves up
to envelop her, astonishment too deep to rally an insult
or catcall. Astonishment of a kind no emoji exists for.
ii
When the little terrier snapped and barked, the ten year
old girl’s hair rose suddenly in a wild thicket over
the top of her head, too plentiful and thread-like
to make her Medusa-like. It was not the first time.
Her hair-burst happened only when no one else
was around. When she was five a jackdaw alighted
on her shoulder and cackled quietly with elongated
gurgles. The sensation had been long known to her
but here for the first time she saw her reflection
as it happened, in the low window of a low sportscar
parked alongside. She knew it was something strange
because if it happened to anyone she knew they never
talked about it, so she resolved neither would she.
Long ago she had learnt she can’t will it to happen,
not even through seeking the company of animals
when alone. Always without warning three times a year
it occurs, when she has forgotten to expect it. Someday
she hopes she’ll understand what it means. If it means.
iii
The daughter of the doll vendor hoped to be
bought herself, to be purchased, put in a box
wrapped with a ribbon, to be carried far
from her mother, from her scathing remarks,
unpredictable clouts. She held her eyes open
as long as she could with a glassy stare, wearing
a dress not too dissimilar to some of the dolls.
Her mother sold mannequins too and dolls of all
sizes. And once she almost got lucky. A cigar
chomping American tourist enquired after her price.
Many customers almost reached that point
before noticing her exhaling or going puce from not
exhaling. When her mother caught her doing this
the girl was left with a black eye or a bruised
cheek, the easier to distinguish her from the dolls.
Her favourite companion was a store dummy in a top
hat and a wig of long black tresses, like Morticia Adams.
Now that was the kind of mother she could approve of.
Ghost of a Sort
The boy who carries a large wallclock on his back
about-faces the temporary puddle which reflects him.
Time runs backwards in the puddle like the clock’s hands.
The boy hasn’t yet grown into his nose. He will, once
hormones coax his brows into over-arching his eyes.
When his jaw morphs into the heaviness of an anvil
his face will be a stranger even to himself. His limbs
will ache with growth, his parchment-smooth features
will be pocked by an asteroid-pelting of acne
and folic growth. The grave or cremation kiln the only
alternative. God forbid, his mother mouths. Even as she
cherishes his coming gangliness, his shoulders of support,
does she know she will yearn time and time again
to be burdened for a moment or two with the disappeared
child? The boy displaced by a man? We can speculate
her memory of him as he is now, will be a haunting ghost of a sort.
about-faces the temporary puddle which reflects him.
Time runs backwards in the puddle like the clock’s hands.
The boy hasn’t yet grown into his nose. He will, once
hormones coax his brows into over-arching his eyes.
When his jaw morphs into the heaviness of an anvil
his face will be a stranger even to himself. His limbs
will ache with growth, his parchment-smooth features
will be pocked by an asteroid-pelting of acne
and folic growth. The grave or cremation kiln the only
alternative. God forbid, his mother mouths. Even as she
cherishes his coming gangliness, his shoulders of support,
does she know she will yearn time and time again
to be burdened for a moment or two with the disappeared
child? The boy displaced by a man? We can speculate
her memory of him as he is now, will be a haunting ghost of a sort.
Patrick Cotter lives in Cork, Ireland. He is a recipient of the Keats-Shelley Prize. His poems have been published in the Financial Times, London Review of Books, Poetry (Chicago), Poetry Review, and elsewhere. Sonic White Poise, his third full collection, was published by Dedalus, Dublin in 2021.
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