In pieces
(write by violent fragments, by splinters.)
       Hélène Cixous


Smashing the hard
grey-coated mounds of flesh,
smashing them onto concrete --
in the intravenous surge
of adrenalin sparking
and igniting
a pure-white-hot
anger which is filling her body.
Swathed in sweat, she hurls
yet another one to the ground.

Watching, transfixed, as the tense golden flesh shreds
laying there, entangled with creamy white seeds --
seeds of hunger, seeds of guilt, seeds
of unspeakable frustration,
seeds spilt on the pavement,
sown in fury.

Smash them, smash more -- slaughter the hard outer cases and watch
the pumpkins turn to pulp, bruise and break --
into great gobbets of rage,
splatterings of disdain ...
and mis-shapen splinters of grief.

Then watch the reservoir
of secrets horded for years
cascading past
shivering skin
melting all memory
borrowing the future

to the unknown ...

now carry the body of it --
the great heavy lump
loaded into the barrow,
and wheel the stuff to its rotting pile of rest.

Diane Caney, 1998
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