Georgina Wilding Scratch Show Draft 1

25 Jan

Prose Poem. It came from an exercise where we had to talk about a recurring dream. No title yet as it’s rough as toast…

I close my eyes and see my hand with a nail file. Not held delicate, pinky out, but clasped, grasped in a fist. Suddenly my fingers find furry ginger chest, with an estate agent sign that reads ‘sold’ poised underneath shoulder blade. I pierce right underneath, pierce the mossy orange grass hair it stands upon and slice downwards with the nail file. Calve a ‘Y’ into his chest and fold back the skin. Slightly to the left of his body, bobbing in gravy and mint sauce; throbbing, beating… a potato. proper battered, farmers field jobby none of this deli crap. I plunge in a hand and rip it towards me, rooty veins snapping, and with the file I peel. Peel off the mouldy crater on the left side of the skin, calve out the brown sprout, shave off every scratch and scuff as it beats, still, in my hands. Finally a new potato. Baby. I stuff it back into his chest and cross stitch him back together with waxy book binding string, in memory of the stories i just peeled off. Finished, I stare at the for sale sign. Analyse its plastic newness, it’s anticipation and eagerness. Not one bit of it says ‘what if?’ Just ‘Sold.’ I put my hands around his grassy body and lead him to the bedroom, where he lays right next to me. Except it’s not me. It’s a new girl, as new and eager as that very ‘sold’ sign. Then I wake up, roll over and check his body for evidence. No scars, but the ‘sold’ sign, well, it’s still there.

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