Prodigal

Copper and ginger, the plentiful 
  mass of it bound, half loosed, and 
    bound again in lavish 

  disregard as though such heaping up 
were a thing indifferent, surfeit from 
    the table of the gods, who do 

    not give a thought to fairness, no, 
  who throw their bounty in a single 
lap. The chipped enamel-blue—on her nails. 

The lashes sticky with sunlight. You would 
  swear she hadn't a thought in her head 
    except for her buttermilk waffle and 

  its just proportion of jam. But while 
she laughs and chews, half singing 
    with the lyrics on the radio, half 

    shrugging out of her bathrobe in the 
  kitchen warmth, she doesn't quite 
complete the last part, one of the 

sleeves—as though, you'd swear, she 
  couldn't be bothered—still covers 
    her arm. Which means you do not 

   see the cuts. Girls of an age—
fifteen for example—still bearing 
    the traces of when-they-were- 

    new, of when-the-breasts-had-not- 
  been-thought-of, when-the-troublesome- 
cleft-was-smooth, are anchored 

on a faultline, it's a wonder they 
  survive at all. This ginger-haired 
    darling isn't one of my own, if 

  own is ever the way to put it, but 
I've known her since her heart could still 
    be seen at work beneath 

    the fontanelles. Her skin 
  was almost other-worldly, touch 
so silken it seemed another kind 

of sight, a subtler 
  boundary than obtains for all 
    the rest of us, though ordinary 

  mortals bear some remnant too, 
consider the loved one's fine- 
    grained inner arm. And so 

    it's there, from wrist to 
  elbow, that she cuts. She takes 
her scissors to that perfect page, she's good, 

she isn't stupid, she can see that we 
  who are children of plenty have no 
    excuse for suffering we 

  should be ashamed and so she is 
and so she has produced this many- 
    layered hieroglyphic, channels 

    raw, half-healed, reopened 
  before the healing gains momentum, she 
has taken for her copy-text the very 

cogs and wheels of time. And as for 
  her other body, says the plainsong 
    on the morning news, the hole 

  in the ozone, the fish in the sea, 
you were thinking what exactly? You 
    were thinking a comfortable 

    breakfast would help? I think 
  I thought we'd deal with that tomorrow. 
Then you'll have to think again.