Her head covered.
SHE says: I am blinded by
the glare of the white washing - the white sheets and the white
pillow cases, the white bedspread and my white underwear, my
camisole and my petticoat - on the line in the morning when I
hang it out.

Sometimes
you can see me in my straw hat and my dark Ray-ban glasses, in
my long-sleeved top, my arms uplifted in the air, my face upturned
to the sun.
SHE says: I am pierced by
the sharp, the long, the hard bristles of the grass broom, the long-
handled grass broom that I bought from the street seller, the broom
that descends upon the wooden floor, that comes down out of the
blue onto the stoep, the stone steps into the garden, like a wolf
upon the fold.

Sometimes
you might find me backed into a small corner of a room, or
crouched at the bottom of a steep flight of stairs, fending off the
fierce bristles of the broom with my bare skin, with my little brittle
bones.
SHE says: I am broken by
the old bodies, the dry and the hard bodies of the dead geckos and
lizards that lie, crushed and dry, flat and dry as cardboard, crushed
by an accidental door, a window, door-jamb or lock.

Sometimes
you might come upon me on my hands and knees checking the
underneath of the front door, the inside jamb of the big bedroom
window before I close them and lock them with my padlock and
my big key.
SHE says: I am scalded by
the steam from the iron that fills the kitchen every night after
dinner, after homework, after story-time and prayers, hissing like
an engine, like Thomas the Train, spitting in my eyes like his fat red
snake.

Sometimes
you may think that these are tears, these sharp drops that pack my
eyes, that I am unhappy, but actually it is just smoke, just steam
from the fire he makes with his hands.
SHE says: I am drowned by
the grey aquarium of the kitchen sink, with its long narrow knives,
the spoons with one eye on top of their heads, the bulbous soup
bowls and flat plates, a school of brightly-coloured cups that
swarm all over my fingers and up my arms like greasy little
tadpoles.

Sometimes
but only if you are lucky, you will find me on my back, with my
goggles and my flippers and my plastic gloves, breathing through
the hole between my legs.
SHE says: I am choked by
the dust that clogs up the vacuum cleaner, that blocks the suction
pipe and the filter with fluff and dog hair and flakes of human skin
that slough off continually, renewing our shape until one day we
are unrecognisable and different.

Sometimes
you may happen to walk past and assume it is me because I look
the same as the person you talk to on the telephone, but oh, on the
inside, on the inside it's all stuffed pipes and tied tubes and
pressure building up, and if you were to suddenly unstop me, why,
like a pink balloon I'd fart my way around the room, and then
psshhhht
go flat.
SHE says: Plug me in.
There. Fill me up. Switch me on. Here. And I'll purr for you like
an over-locker.

See how I run.