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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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I sat there and prayed
to have the wooden spike prised from my infected heart; I sat there and wished you were a splinter under my fingernail, like the ones my mother used to get from the creaking cross-bars of the old backyard clothesline- the creaking thieves pinioned at either side of the spiked backyard. I remembered the pain she used to get under her nail- the agony of hanging out the washing on a cold morning in a bitter Blacktown winter. I remembered the way the flesh underneath the nail would have turned yellow, the finger a puffed and poisoned cushion around the wood... and how she used to cry with the pain and the bitterness of pegging out the mangled clothes- how she would wring the rough woolens by hand, imprinting on them the despair of chapped and chilblained fingers- and how she used to say the wind off the mountains would blow straight through her, pulling a cardigan close, remembering the pain of mothers' milk turned bad- of milk turned to blood and water. I remembered how the yellowed finger would become evil and engorged, and how, finally, the little sliver of timber would emerge from the toxic glue under her nail. I sat there today, wishing you were such a splinter. I imagined my skin closing around you to fester and go bad, and to, finally, force you out and away from me in an ooze of poison, a final douching of passion. I sat there today, feeling your closeness, and I wished you were a splinter under my nail.
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