James Joyce meets me in the kitchen

And so it came to pass in the kitchenette, past the towel-rubbing efficiency of hands, past the soda crystals of despair, past the long tongue of a knife edge against skin, ah yes, past all of that, I met dear Jim down in the corner. You see it there? The tiny slither of onion skin there, dear James. The soft lace of spider web and eight legs clasping a lemon pip. No, not a fly dear spider. Not a fly. Just a hard knot or pippy sour. Dear old James, holding my hand down there, like he did. Always on an evening.

Hungry I was. Near starving. Not eaten since 5.30am and worked the day of the Gods. It was so very tiring. It kills me, I whispered in your ear. It near kills me. And to God, I hoped that you would come and lift me up in your arms and say, 'Here, darling, here's a cup of tea, lar.' Or maybe just a tiny morsel to eat. White pudding or something of the sort, with apple jelly. I just sat there, by the freezing cold of iron handles and don't push me hands. I just sat, there by the lonelier than ever before or since. I sat there by that lonelier than ever. It was colder than a Derry day. Whilst all that time where you held me before with the curves of our backs agains the door could still be seen. The steady gasp of a hand-print, yes I can still see it there, or so I thought I could. Perhaps it was just some old slime or jelly of tinned sausage. I flicked it there, that must be it. In a flight of passion, I gripped the can edge. The click of can opener and there it was, jaggedy Anne.

Sometimes I dream of tipping the ripe juice of tomatoes out over my skin. It looks like blood. Ripping open stuck labels of skin from this spot here and raking it. It would look pretty against tomato pips and froth. A mess of vegetable and earthly, bodily matter. Why, you pretty thing, you. How could I treat you so? With your working hard all day and nothing to eat inside your little belly there, slumped under the cooker.

Why do you work so hard? And I hug myself and wonder why the people who seem the happiest are always the saddest of all. You shake me and try to wake me. Just a cold, slumped shoulder of wet flank. And sometimes the imprint of a fingery bruise is all that is there. You say that I am your biddy. I can almost see down on your cheek from here, you used to say.

You don't trust me and I fly up into the air and feel the bite of it all. Ripping at the flex. I wonder how much longer I can hang on, the bleached out face, the used to say eyes. The memory of what I once was.

Past all that, yes, past all that. I sat down next to dear Jimmy and traced the lino with the fingers, as I had done all those years ago at seven. Seven, when the innocence was taken away. Dough ball days of heaven and hell.