I realised that there was a child
concealed within.
Far too late,
my foot already on its way.
I kicked it, Ava,
the pile and the child inside.
I never did harm to a living soul!
That’s what Tosca sings in “Vissi d’arte”,
But how does she know?
How could you know?
I mean,
I know I have –
I kicked that child, Ava – it cried.
And then there’s that fateful night I – well, no
something in me –
and I –
spilled over –
anger but clearer, cleaner than that –
captain’s hat,
not yet
you bitch you can’t just – Ava, no.
you bitch you bitch you bitch
Poor Tosca –
I’d hate to carry the notion that I’d never harmed
a soul – that’s too much pressure.
Anyway,
this is what I was thinking about as I walked that
kitchen garden in the rain – imagine, Ava,
the space to grow, not one, but several
types of onion!
And I looked down only just in time to see
a bird – medium-sized, brown – sitting in the middle of
the path.
I halted.
I’d nearly stepped on it, it hadn’t moved,
it hadn’t even flinched.
Its eyes were beady, watchful,
its feathers were speckled at its breast,
it was tucked in on itself – a loaf, a package,
still,
