If the dead could speak by Nadia Kingsley It all starts
as the curtain rises
to reveal a new born babe;
gurgling and smiling,
feeding and filling her nappies;
content within the bosom of her family. In the next scene there’s a fairy tale twist
when, at the age of two,
the child’s gut was transmogrified
into a soft warm comforter
the day her daddy went away. She stayed silent
for several years,
her gut and tongue in quiet accord.
The world, as she had known it,
had changed forever.
There was a chill in the air.
And as the leaves rustled on the branches
they whispered Do not trust. She looked blankly at her family remains.
She felt abandoned
in a nest of songbirds.
She felt awkward and ugly
but tried so hard to belong.
She learnt their tunes by rote
yet felt nothing stir within her shrunken heart.
She buried the calling of her kind,
and lived in cities so as not to hear
the Cuckoo, Cuckoo, every spring. Time passed.
You may be relieved to hear
that her Prince did come.
His beery kiss
melted her stone-cold lips.
The rose petals masking her eyes
fell away and then she knew
that what she had been striving for
was another man’s song
and not her true destiny. Together they built themselves a castle
cultivating a thick black thorny hedge;
to keep away the witches bearing poisoned apples,
the shoemaker peddling factory seconds,
the farmyard birds – so spiteful and small minded;
and handing out backstage passes
to just a few. That old spell was strong however,
cast at such a vulnerable time.
It would not let go of its grip.
He was not able to change back that which was changed,
but he learnt how to darn
and she learnt how to trust,
and who to trust,
and they lived happily, a day at a time,
and by exploring each moment
the years slipped by unnoticed. Time goes by, taking its natural toll.
The thread of her life is spun out.
The curtain falls.
Cast and crowd move on.
She passes into another plane;
where the spell has no power,
she is whole;
and every spring
calls to others
Don’t go mad in another man’s skin. |
