The Hen Upstairs

The naked eye can see that the cat isn't well. The white-furred body lying on its side, spread btwn two potted rhododendrons of a white-chaired and white-tabled café, head supported on the front poughs. The body of the cat asleep, or so it seems. A thin springlet of blood, nearly impossible, half-dried, on its way from the closed mouth to the chin becomes visible at a closer look. A tourist stops and leans towards the cat. A moment of hesitation appears between her and the animal.  She takes a picture, will carry it home across the continent.

Where is the train carrying her in its belly? Which sea does it measure on its cruise, this shark-shaped steal creature painted in blue and white? What mother of pearl has hidden inside its only passenger? What pearl has got taken out? Odd-shaped, irregular, hardened? Or a soft-muscled clod of a body that now belongs to nobody? Where's her womb, her ovaries, her fallopian tubes? What's become of them, once prosperous, thriving, full of aspiration? What's her destination, does she know? Was it up to her to choose it? When will she arrive, and where? Will she know?

Looking at olive trees out of the blue she remembers lupin. Violet fields of them, gatherings of pink. Who is she? Where does she come from? Where's she going?

At night she dreams that with a bunch of women (together there were five) she births the world They focus on the work, they form a circle of their naked arms. They sway, and sing, and push. (She's got a ball of yellow light inside that wants to grow and to go out, or burst.) She feels she's ready now the way she hadn't been for thousands times She has two daughters, one by one. They come full-shaped,  well-formed, grown-up. One is the darkness of the world, the other's blonde and fine - a dragonfly spine-like, the bee-like soft She loves the first one - the one who has black hair, who wears green-framed glasses to see into the mother pearl of things Meanwhile, the forest grows around the scar. The light-haired one finds her home there. She takes her husband with her, a bed, a stove,  and two  small bikes. In due time, she gives birth  twice. The boys grow up and save the world from lack of love The women smile and close their eyes. The world goes on.

The way she smokes the body of the cigarette gives in to the breath of flame She inhales the fogs from above  the lakes, burning her fingers on the fish's scales she drowns her dreams she breaks the rules beforehand following the track that isn't hers she grows apart from moss  and ferns One day she finds a baby dragon in her purse on the recess She takes it home and nurses it, and brings it up until it grows and leaves the nest she wove for him Then she exhales

Where they grow there is a certain kind of love something invisible, unvisioned, from long ago a silenced tongue that can't keep quiet anymore