I take out the bin for pocket-money. It’s only 10p, she tells me it’s all she can afford. We both hold onto the washing machine for its spin-cycle rock’n’roll. Unhung pictures have collected weeks’ worth of dust, but we vacuum – now and then – and she scrubs. She’s taught herself to program thermostats, heating, even TV, but parental locks are beyond her. So my brother chats inappropriately with Tibetan monks and louche gamesters in France late into the night. She leaves the room quickly when the Skype jingle heralds another call from our dad. She tells us she is learning so much new stuff, foists recipes upon us too exotic for our tastes. Luckily, every two weeks we relax for a couple of days with Dad’s frozen pizzas or chicken nuggets galore.
Doorbell dings. ‘We’ve noticed your patio could do with some cleaning – we kill weeds, pressure wash, spray and all.’ I don’t know why she shakes her head smiling feebly, nor why she leans quite so closely on the door she slams behind them.
My scabs grow new scabs –
each layer a way
to pave my path out of hell
into good intentions but
I scratch till fresh bleed.
8 thoughts on “Domestic Bliss”
I love it – all of it, not just the verse – (and translate mentally into French :-)))
Mes croûtes en font surgir de nouvelles
Chaque couche me servant
À paver mon chemin hors de l’enfer
Et vers de bonnes intentions mais
Je me gratte jusqu’au sang neuf.
You are such a brilliant, wonderful, kind translator! It really makes me feel better about my own writing!
Reblogged this on anita dawes and jaye marie.
I’m pretty sure the words ‘domestic bliss’ is an oxymoron…
You are right in about 95% of the cases…
This is beautifully written, Marina Sofia. And it’s a real window into what it’s like to start over…
Oh Marina so many chords chime in that post, wonderfully written with as much said in the gaps in between.
That was the aim… glad you think I achieved that. Thank you so much for reading!