_ bearing _
She's so beautiful. I can't -
But I have to.
Her eyes, corrupted. Her smile, forbidden. She bends to me, knowing I must turn away. Her hair, I know it as I know my own; it is damp and soft and lonely. . . all it wants, always, is a pillow to lie on. To rest on.
Her eyes, defeated. Her hand outstretched. She knows I won't take it. Beautiful child – no.
She still comes up for air, every time I make her breathe. She mustn't die in my arms, no. I bring her to the brink... I take her to the very edge of her vision, and there I leave it.
Leave her as her come turns her vision red, explosive, then white, erupting, then black and black until I make her come up again, up again... up, up.
This broom is heavy, this broom is cool. This broom is fire between her legs, and I see her twist about, biting her lip, spit and old come glistening on her lip.
I have to, I have to lick it off, I have to –
The room is dark and I come alive breaking, gasping into my hand as I stifle the sound.
Her back to me, her neck tilting to the side, her hair up in a twist, one arm crossing her breast to her shoulder. Her bare back.
I see all this, from my distance, my ever distance, the distance I permit myself as I don't permit myself the luxury of her.
But I can watch. Watch her other arm as it works feverishly between her legs. See them part in silent invitation, and I just know that on the other end the skin will be shaved and shaped like a V.
I watch them part and tremble and I watch her bend her neck back and back and back -
and now I see it is my hand, coming down between my legs, parting them...
She sleeps with her night-light on. The shadow of my hand almost touches her face, but I do not.
The shadow of my mouth opens and forms a little 'o', and the shadows queeze a soft crooning note from my throat.
The shadow of my form steps closer, the outstretched arm almost covering her now.
Her night-light flickers and makes the shadow of my hands travel over her body, slick and sweetly. As the night cloaks our sins. . .
The shadow watch beeps a shrill twelve.
My shadow moves away to the door and closes it before she stirs and opens her eyes.
Wishes must wait for better days, and so shall I. Though no day will come when I may be relieved of this curse, this - this agony.
This lust for my daughter. What mother wants her child?
Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood. But her hands are my sister's, the one that tucked me in at night, covered me with all her body. . .
Her hair is my own, red, but fiery, like the eyes of my high school friend of lips flaming and tongue scalding and licking, licking. . .
Her eyes, soft as only hers could be, soft and willing and slipping into me until I could just -
I just want to swallow her, want to taste her, I just want - her.
I have no excuse. I have no explanation. What explanation would suffice? I want my daughter. Four words, condemning the soul. And though it may not change my world or will, it might just change the outcome.
The first step to resolving a problem is admitting it. I have that down pat, don't I?
The second step, 'confrontation with the problem' I'll just skip. I must. To 'confront my problem' would be to give into it in the first place.
The third step –
but then she walks in again, all smiles and laughter and eyes glittering and I fail, I fail -
and I am a lousy mother, and a monster and a demon and I shout at her, shout at her eyes that glitter of tears now,
and shout at her lip that begins to tremble,
and shout at her perky breasts that come up and down like a tidal wave as her breath grows more erratic,
and she starts gasping and she gasps and I shout at her gasping,
and she runs out the door -
I am alone again.
My hands tremble.
So beautiful. Crying here, in my arms. I produced these tears, I initiated this response and yet she comes to me for comfort.
She comes to the mother, comes to my arms, into me. I hold her. I still her tears. I stroke her hair, her back, her arms. I feel rather than hear her breathing go back to normal. I shush her attempt to speak, protests, apologies, and begin to sing. I sing her a lullaby.
She goes limp in my arms. Her breasts press against mine. Her mouth is to my neck, the tide of breath coming in. . . and out. I stop singing. Her breath quiets. I stroke her back, her neck. I stroke her neck. I stop humming. I draw her hands away from her face. I look into those wet eyes. I kiss her.
I kiss her.
I kiss my daughter and it is glory, it is contentment, it is exhilaration and joy, joy and madness and my hands come to her face and take her face into their cup as though they contain water, and her lips are still damp and her eyes are still wet and getting wetter and I dry them up, dry them tears up and lick them away, I lick them away, I lick -
She breaks loose from the stronghold of my arms and turns away, jumps up, leaves the room.
It seems softer now.
Beautiful child. Beautiful child. Beautiful. . . beautiful. . .
For what mother wants her child?
_ fin _