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Perhaps there's only so much you can
forget, ignore, pretend didn't happen. But she remembered, in
daymares, dismembered, in snatches …
One potato – Her sister sat in a
darkened room, naked except for a blanket. A bent-backed lamp craned
its neck. A hand. A bulb. Burning pain connected insanity to
reality.
Two potato – Another time, another
place, another fracture. Her sister screamed, wouldn't stop
screaming. The streets were slick with rain. Why couldn't she stop
her sister screaming? Why couldn't she stop her sister burning?
Three potato – Her father, oh her
father, who art in heaven. She met him at the National Gallery.
They stared at portraits for three hours, never looking each other in
the face. She asked him an unanswerable question. He quoted
Shakespeare.
Four potato – A different he said he
loved her. She believed him. That was seven years ago. But he
couldn't kick the heroin habit, no matter how hard she kicked him.
He preferred brunettes to blondes. He's clean now. He's gone now.
Five potato – She calls her mother
“frosty tits” but keeps her own nipples in the freezer, along
with a withered vagina, two four letter words and a bottle of vodka.
Everything comes with ice and a slice. Everything.
Six potato – Night times are the
worse. She can still hear her sister crying through the walls. But,
if she has the TV on loud enough and the Valium dose is high enough,
mangled dreams come and save her.
Seven potato – I don't know who she
is.
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