Mothering Sunday

The lips had already done their bit - all the cliches and polite kisses - when the ears went on strike. Enough stories about school! they said, enough! LalalalaLA!

Into the silence of deliberate deafness, the eyes then spoke for a while. Look at this old lady, they said, whom looks just like you, but sagged and squashed. Look at her love, as she talks her tedious talk, here in your old home.

Your old home! answered the Imagination. Look around: the room fills with what has passed; that surprise birthday party, father leaving for the last time, you having sex on this very sofa; and further back, your parents sat around, you no bigger than a fist, sat bumping about in her stomach. And before you bounded into this brilliant world, you were conceived here too - with love-making perhaps, or planned down to the detail of your name, or maybe with a faked orgasm, such a tiny formality. Who knows?

Ah, said Nostalgia, how you were wanted here in this house. How you were welcomed here into this home. Warm, all so warm.

Then, the body parts all turned to me. Fist, they said in chorus, dear Fist, do not spoil all this, the peace and quiet. The tongue has sworn it shalt not swear - don't ask. And the penis is as sleepy as a babe. Fist, they said, Fist, so what that you once were tiny and fell out of her vagina? So what that you clung to her breast as the hot milk flowed to the mouth? Fist, angry Fist, rebellious Fist, hateful Fist, just stay in that pocket, where the arm has tucked you - no, thou shalt not wave about.

I had no answer, in my itchy laughter, there in the pocket, I had no answer. And now I speak: Body, as the lips lick themselves, looking for love, as the ears are invaded by the sound of a city, scything through space, as the eye twitches for threats from all corners of the streets, as the old house warms its lonely widow, so many miles away, what would you do with out me now, blurted into the everyday of this city, which doesn't have a care in the world?