She was convinced that everybody leaves behind a cemetery.
Hollow rooms of silence and suppression beneath grasslands.
Or guilt and heartache and burning memories without peace.
Objectified people and names, buried and absorbed, out of touch.
She cut the cords and her life grew back into her body, forcing her
Lips to form a careful smile as a battle of voices besieges her brain.
She stares at her unfamiliar eyes and wants to shove her head into
The cold white sink. The body of a skinned fish, the flesh, the ocean, the
Continuity of life despite death. She tried to find her own echo in the oval
Basin. Become material. Detached. Hard as porcelain. Unblemished. Not
Asked to contribute, to participate in everything that is simply not her, never.
And she remembers her mother’s kisses that turned to stone on her cheeks.
“Woman’s Head with Red Bun” by József Rippl-Rónai (1861-1927)
