(CW: Non graphic depictions of child sexual abuse, eating disorders)
Parallel Play
By Rebecca Egan
When I am seven both in years and shoe size I clasp
my fingers around the chained metal
fence, outlining our property border.
A girl, a year
older, stands opposite with the glee
of someone who has arrived
at hope. She asks
if I will play hop
scotch with her.
I freeze in a cold
snap, as if the humidity of
this Australian summer is not
turning my back sweat-speckled.
As if I no longer am nimble
or like lightning, disappearing the micro
second after impact.
At seven I have been alive for long enough
to know that play is just one man's
hook hands making meat
out of a body. My
body.
Say uncle. No, really, speak of
my uncle. Say his name. See how we
play. See how I am a praying
mantis pinned against the dank of a fold out
mattress. Pulled back like failed origami.
Smoothed against the fabric. The kami of my inner
thigh is freckled with
blood.
I look skyward, remember
how to smile. Let her know I can't
today. My mother says it's too close to
midday. Lunch, you see. I turn around.
Each step deliberate, hiding my
flee.
Later
I make a paper crane, leave it
on her doorstep.
I am on the edge of a child
hood. I am on the
edge.
But she's right in it.
Liver: noun, someone who lives
Little liver living and her kidneys
keeping score. Then there’s the forgiving. My organs don’t trust
me. I am going back
to the work of owning a body.
I move forward. No space for pausing, at least in the beginning.
I am running off inertia. And simple carbohydrates.
I am gnawing at the sidelines of life and life it squeaks
like a Styrofoam cup. There is no beauty in the noise, just an earache. Hot screams through
molasses. No one hears, but my uvula is softened by meal replacement syrup. Baby bird. Six offerings of food a day. Six times to choose a thing close to being
alive. Or at least not dead. Because they are two different
things.
Some days, like today, I get a little hot-honey- hearted.I feel it in the way I want to take my vomit soaked
fingers and curl a fist. Hurl
up. Drown in emesis every body
that swallowed my body
not with a hunger
but with a greed.
But I can’t do that. Can’t go
back now and perform the abuse
in reverse to erase
the bruise that was beaten into
me. The one that says: you will be safe
if you don’t eat.
Little liver lying. Kidneys falling behind.
I think of child me, caught at the sidelines
of my retina. I picture her in a swing so high. Knowing she’ll be caught
this time when she leaps.
Rebecca Egan is a creative writer and researcher from Naarm, Australia. Their work has appeared in 3Elements and Epistemic Lit. Her poetry explores the relational, both internal and external, in an attempt to navigate life alongside adversity. They are also an avid fan of a piping hot cup of tea. She can be found on Instagram at littlehonourings and X at rebeccaegan___
Artwork Source: “Tern,” Kyle Burton
Artist Statement: “Tern” is part of a series of works depicting dead birds found on the beaches of Cape Cod, MA. Its chief aesthetic concern lies in capturing the beauty of the bird’s pose in death—its bent wings and cocked head suggest potential dynamism, which is foiled and frozen by the oppressive black of the scratch board’s ink.
Kyle Burton is an artist, writer, and researcher based in Cambridge, MA. His artwork and poetry have been published in college media outlets, and he appreciates the opportunity to share his work with a broader audience. To date, he has also worked in biochemistry, field ecology, and bird conservation, all of which work their inspirations into a continuously evolving art practice.
The Turning Leaf Journal 