Barbie and Beans (45)

It’s always the same, damn story. Once a month I have to go. For years, I was trying to avoid, to pretend to be dead, to be sick (it’s “cooler” to be ill than dead), to capitulate, to be stung by Pandrad’s tick, by the Lemurs from the past, by the cold, have a sex change, no longer to be myself, being gone mad, be returned to take a sweater, to be gone mad with a sweater on me, to have leprosy, to have the stigmata in my pocket…There was no way. The call to Mom was stronger than everything! Every month! It must be a kind of menstruation of some superbody in which we inhabit, or a stream of thought, maybe a self-adjusting domino-effect, a nemesis of duck with orange, a phimosis of divine bladder. I don’t know! It must be a disease. Being Mom means to be affected by a disease. A perverse chimera that modulates the body, which swells the placenta of her youthness and put it in the tin box of her oldness. Well, on the table crop up a plate of bean soup, with a clear surface, a brown pool patched of head of garlic, and then, on the edge, as a Diva, with her small plastic arms outstretched to cling herself to the rim of dish, a Barbie, with her neck out of beans. Perhaps naked in the soup that I have to eat. With a tiny comb, my mother stretches her eyelashes hiding a tear that falls in the dish.

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