Home' LOTL : January 2007 Contents 29
ADELAIDE AUTHOR NIC
ROWAN WON THE FEAST
FESTIVAL SHORT STORY
COMPETITION WITH THIS ENTRY.
I’m the pot plant on the window-sill. I say this so
there is no confusion. The big pot plant with furred
silver leaves on the table in front of the lounge room
window. Mary owns me. She brought me in from the
cold, inside where she lives, inside away from the
common plants. It is warm in here all the time. She
feeds me deep dark things that smell of death and
wild animals. Mary loves me. I know she does. Mary
Mary your softskinned fingers when you stroke me
when you sing me when you water me wet…
Mary keeps her book of spells behind the sofa and
when we are alone she takes it out and casts about
her like a fisherwoman with wild net hair, casts spells
and brews potions and waits. She is so very good
Mary has a tattoo on the skin of her left shoulder,
in the shape of a rose. She is turning herself into
a plant for me, growing roots that come out of the
top of her head, rich dark brown roots that hang
down her back. They grow thicker and more tangled
every day. Sometimes she ties the roots with silken
Just once, when Mary tended to my most delicate
needs with her softsweet fingers, one of her roots
touched the soil of my pot and I thought, in a
moment of shivering ecstasy, that she might join me.
Then she lifted her head and I was separated from
her and the thin air was between us and I drowned in
it and my wild love for Mary. I still feel it. Sometimes I
am sick with it. Mary come sing me touch me touch
me I wait always wait for you we can be can be…
It’s Mary’s birthday soon. I am going to make her a
worthy gift, a beautiful gift from my own body. It will
be exquisite and perfumed, delicate and transient. It
will take everything I have, everything that I can pull
from the sacred centre of my love.
I have been watching Mary (I do nothing but watch
my Mary) and her book of spells and the way she
calls things of air and fire to her to her and I am
learning. Oh yes, I am learning the secrets of the
warm earth, of small burrowing black shelled things
that waken at night.
The preparations are made. I can feel the fine
unfurling within me, the shock of widening at my
base, the shooting upward hardened spine of my
determination. My tap root is searching the soil,
Mary’s darkened secret earth, bringing ancient
elements to my core, to this ultimate artistry, to this
hallelujah for my love.
And now this is my story, my moment, my glorious
Aria to Mary. This is my pinnacle. The sun is rising
and as it moves over the window-sill it will strike and
heat me through, send the last message to my risen
sap that it is time.
Here is the sun. I am a vast orgasm of opening, a
shocking vermillion scream of joy. I am fully, deeply
in flower. I am my own gift.
And Mary, my Mary, oh my sweet, perfect Mary, she
will know that I am deadly when crushed.
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