My Bellower

2009
Published in Paradise Anthology #2

Born from a Szczecin seamstress
and a one night gypsy.
68 and built solid, like potato.
She is the staunchest of my inner voices,
has more stamina than my Deep Water Fisherman,
my Pigeon Fancier
and even my Rock Pig.

She moves ahead of my secret reverie and wonderings, with unexpected stealth.

Face creased like silk dried in a tight ball of wet fabric,
then lightly teased open.
Walnut shell eyes positioned near her ears
and a broad-bridged nose with modest protrusion.

She wears her double dentures on the window-sill.
Her mouth tilts slightly to her left in what appears to be
quiet, unfaltering nonchalance.

One head height less than I, she stands upright and heavy breasted.
Her right fist is firmly stationed at what was once her waist.

Movement in a blue and white small spotted frock is
a steady burrowing action.
Leveraging on my thoughts.

She has something to say.

Roaming and yawping are her two greatest fates.
And I am her fairground.

She shuffles about my reflections and waits.
Shuffles some more, accumulating volume in her hand woven basket.

And with her basket full,
the bellow erupts, catches on the re-stitched seams of her vocal curtains,
unhindered by teeth
and refracts in all directions.

Then, as if to harvest the scattered sound,
she mumbles,
before shooting off more commentary.

I am unsure if it’s the bellow, the scatter or the mumble I am supposed to listen to.

I imagine her a young woman, sewn into her future and yearning from gypsy blood.
Her white face shows lines early and is
written with the stories of others,
lightly teased open.

Then I realise I am looking at the page and for that moment she holds her breath and I see her smile.