Anna Robi and the House of Dogs
I wouldn’t mind looking after him. If he got a fever or disease or something,
turned all slimy like ham that’s gone bad, I’d peel off his shirt, lay him down
on new sheets, and dab him with a washer. Bucket near his head for the sick.
Blender lasagne into custard so he could drink it. Help him pee. I wouldn’t
mind doing that. Cos what we’ve got is worth getting better for. Me and him.
And while I’m holding the coke bottle for him to pee in, he’d look at me and
I’d look at it … and we’d do it. On his sick bed. Cold fever sweat and dry
retching the whole time. Who’d care if it was bad when afterwards the sweat
seals our bodies together like a bandaid … We’d be glowing.
Even if he was dying, I’d sit by him, and even after. He’ll kiss my cheek with his
last breath. Dry-vomit lips on my clean skin. And I won’t start crying cos I don’t
want the tears to wash that last bit of life off my face. And for as long as I live I
wouldn’t let another kiss me there. Not even after all the sick saliva seeps into
my skin – and he’s inside of me forever. Not even then.
But how do you lose your virginity when you share a bed with your mother?
And down we go.