Issue 22 - 1992

Coe Review • Issue 22
hurrying toward. That’s all language is about. And the television
says hostages in lebanon, preschool drug addiction, dioxides, acid
rain and nuclear waste.
“Fish,” you say. “Fish fish fish. Goldfish. Goldfish daddy.”
You can still feel the wet squirming word in your hand. You can still
see it falling down the long black pipe. And the marcie saying you’re
in trouble now, boy. You’re in trouble now. The round bowl-water
empty and opaque with tiny white feces. And next day mother says
Where’s our family photographs? They were right there on the
mantelpiece. And the marcie puts her fists firmly on her hips to tell
them, but then you say “Mother. Daddy. Marcie. Grandma.
Grandma.” All those words you found in the grandma’s mouth last
night. And nobody hears the marcie say a thing. Now it’s the
marcie’s words that don’t really matter.
“Kodak,” you tell them finally, just to let them know you
understand even big words, too. “Kodacolor. Kodachrome.”
But the grandma is never happy when you visit, looking at
you with her big black mouth open. Aaaah. All the world’s loud
words resounding and spinning down there in the grandma’s mouth.
You try to pet and soothe her. These are the words, you think. These
are words right here, and the grandma kicks and grabs, gurgling
where your hand is, and so you take your hand back. Grandma
grandma. All the darkness inside the grandma grows and grows,
whispers and whispers, moves and pushes. Everything’s better down
there. Down there the grandma can be happy again. Down there the
grandma can be grandma again.
You lead her down the hall steps. Doo, doo, doo, doo. One
two two four two one two two. The grandma holds the banister
because she’s afraid. She makes different noises now, wordless
noises down in her stomach and thighs and feet. Doo doo doo doo
doo. All the shadows hanging from the walls and furniture and
curtains, and opening the squeaky picture window, the grandma
leaning against you, her body thin and frail and very soft like a giant
stuffed giraffe. The grandma all hollow spongy bone. The grandma
all sound and word and dream. Outside, the night is filled with stars
and the big fat leaning moon, humming there, filling the steel pipe
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