Monday, 27 April 2009

Fox Fur

I do not know what to make of you and your broken, shaking hands. Your eyes make me cry. Your eyes make me alien. My tea needs sugar Mother. I jump in to cold, blue water, black beetles swim around and a shark’s fin hangs above my head in the farm. I wonder what secrets the fox fur stole used to know. It terrified me so. It used to hang in my wardrobe covered in white glossy paint where I used to lay down and push my bare feet down against the door to the floor, making it scream. The fox hanged itself along with a few of her other old, contaminated clothes probably from other husbands and sometimes, it would lean out and touch me. It smelt of old things, dead creepy things. Mother used to wear the animal a lot when she was younger; it had small, glass eyes that tinkered when your nail touched them and a tiny hinge on its mouth so that you could make it talk, and even though I’ve tried many a time, it never speaks. I now wear a black fox fur stole in the winter.

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