Prescriptions from my mother are written in the same ash from which she came. "Do not visit your father this Christmas, he is dying and not worth the cost of the fare." It is hard to remain silent but I know that for her narcissism there is no cure. "You should sell your horse as you have no job at the moment", she finishes, then invites me to watch her open her purse so to medicate me, mend my sores.
I refuse to look, as I know, that as before, she will stop to show me the pale of her wrists which have become scratched and are now bleeding due to her pressing hard to scrape them against the zipper.
ReplyDeletehorse nuzzles yr neck
all news was good news
even when written in ash
I took my horse into the forest where new shoots grow after the fires, and fed her there.
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