SLOBBERING BEAST,
UNBEARABLE FEAST
My mother wore velvet and fake furs to church, while my
father preferred his plain suits. They often, together,
looked like some American Gothic in reverse - the
pitchfork, by the way, in either one's back. That
was my legacy, that's how I lived. Sylvia Plath
had nothing on me - all the 'Daddy' stuff pales
when put alongside. I burned coals in the plams
of my hands; my stigmata was the gloom of
betrayal and mirth together combined : all those
Ed Sullivan nightmares pre-dating the Beatles.
Elvis fucking Presley swiveling his hips? Only
my Aunt Adele was outraged. The hot coals
still singe my hands. My mother, I recall, was
furious one long ride home - because my father
had laughed at a joke my uncle told. I was eight
years old, and still remember not quite understanding
whatever the punchline was : 'My wife can't wrestle,
but you should see her box.'
No comments:
Post a Comment