In the woods, I learn about love and how dogdaisies keep on drinking it, finding it whenever they extend their roots into the heart of the world or whenever they raise their heads toward the sun at first light. At night, they bow their heads, fold closed their faces and await the dew. I sometimes mimick them when sleepless, drapping strains of hair over my face picturing patterns and colours and outlines. And the dew does come or perhaps it is my drool or the drip from the ceiling mother still hasn't had fixed cause she's forever elsewhere drowning. So I shy water and fire too, ever since I met my own thoughts. Silly how naive I've been, how I've overestimated my capacity to handle happiness. Homing in black and white, content with hues of grey, the dogdaisies' blantant face in all its yellow glory confounds me. Though firmly embedded, they seem as free as birds, smiling all the while. I see this in some people too, this muddiness, this dirt is good grit and I am not talking about farmers here, more about someone like M. She wouldn't want to have someone write about her. Or Teddy whose stride you spot from miles away. They are the "do their own thing" kind of people whereas I mostly flinch, float, or fly flumoxedly between wanting to be a dog and a bird. Better still, a duck, I muse walking into Keogh's to meet Dad who is already on pint number seven. No, he didn't beat us or spend it all on booze. He orders me a glass of red, mammys me with a carvery, tells me what suit he'll strut down the aisles, happiness around him like a cloak. The sun is streaming through the window. I expect he'll drop off, I'll pack him into a cab and put him to bed, this the second time ever, the first being after Karl brought the baby home. Even I warmed
though deep down I felt sorry for the little being, helpless as she is, not knowing what God awful family surrounds her; a greying granddad, a grandious granny, an aunt forever surprised, the only contained person, her mum. Slender as she is, she still comes across as an oak, one hundred years old at the very least. Seeds stuck between my teeth during breakfast this morning, I became cognisant of the earth's busyness, a madness to embrace, to feed, to house, to push, to keep, to bear and birth and bear and birth again, only to become a home for somebody dead and part, glad that the rain would reliably hide her tears because she is birthing in a million holes and wrinkles and cuts. But this is just it, the earth never parts, never lets go. She bears, she breaks down, she bridles, she buyos, she braces. Dad's snoring follows me out the door. A text from mum, a photo from one of her soirees. Why don't you follow me? She keeps on asking. Strange how she seeks my approval, I ought to like the shade of her lipstick, the blue sheen of her teeth. She is like water, Karl always says.
Earth
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