Parricide: A memoir

(Reflections on I, Pierre Rivière having slaughtered my mother, my sister, and my brother...)

A body
Its flesh spread
In foetal curled
Small incisions
I begin to make

Slivers of skin
Coloured red
With salt water
Slide across the floor

The mass that
Tries to scream
Throw throw throw
Baby and bathwater

The knife plunges
Again
It is no sword
I use it to cut bread

Bread you demand
I bake, I serve
The calendar
Today purpled

You thought it
My birthday
My gift -
My freedom
Your life.

this is where
i feel inadequate
here just here

self indulgent
a violin bow
wrapped
in velvet
a china doll
layered
in plastic
editorial sanctions comma no black ink
clean copies
washed by the machine
artists oil colours
not less but more

i did not
dance sing shout drink mingle join
i do not
remember
the mouth
that touched
the hands
my aching breasts
lines of love
i do not know
where i draw
your shape
mine
quotations
that never cease
utterances they
become
i think
the dankness
of the room
does not
stop

the open door paralyses