Catherine of Siena, Sainted Anorexic, on her Starving Rituals
My angels and devils get muddled up. Swap
shoulders sometimes, hold hands hostage
in hellfire prayer. Have you seen the little minx
with the god-white teeth and the crewcut?
She told me I could eat as many satsumas
as I wanted; she birthed my mouth and I sucked that juice
like the blessed starved. She stroked my lips
when I whimpered, sold flesh for pennies. Played a disco tune
on repeat. We spun golden in the morning;
when it got sad she rocked me to sleep. And her pal –
geez! Those brimstone eyes. Matte black lipstick
and a flimsy red dress. I guess I like her style. Every so often
she mirages a new reflection in my mirror,
paints me something small and strong. Un-staples
my tongue and tempts words to fill the void.
Miss God! She has been waiting so long! Her hair
is falling out! Her smile is blue and broken! Sometimes
I think they are in it together. I imagine them
breeding in my chest. Look here – so many
imperfect daughters. All of us stricken and seething.
All of us guilty and grateful. They hate-fucked me to life
and now they are cumming
all over my heart. I wish they would quiet down.
I wish they would thicken the walls. All these multitudes
hurt me too much. I think I hunger. I thank Heavens.
Psychiatry Appointment, June
I say I need a little more time. You say
summer waits for no one. I say but my hands
still shiver when I wake and the writing
isn’t cooked yet - you say try herbal tea
and making fewer excuses. I say but I need
my excuses, they plait my hair each night
you say your affectations are strangling you
and every note out of your mouth sounds
like whipped violin. I say how does someone
become less pathetic and needy
you say by admitting what’s necessary.
I say why won’t the seagull leave me alone
you look almost angry like a bullfighter
almost resigned like a bull you say
you haven’t taken your risperidone, have you?
6th August
It starts like this: six hours on cold
metal. Families bubbling through
the big door, all snot, shuttled
to the children’s department. A woman
with strawberry hair
and a burned face writhes
in handcuffs. Police-people politely
laugh; she threatens their devils.
Receptionist is impatient.
Hottest day of the year,
and her skin flakes like plaster.
Woman reported the devil, apparently,
took her big voice and morals
to the station, made to expunge the beast
but no safety, no mercy,
got locked up. Meanwhile
Girl gets her heart stencilled
by echoes, stuck with plasters, all
gunk on tits when the old man
loses his current and medics
pulse him into the room; a curtain
is drawn as they zap him – she
covers herself while he refuses
to die. Later her blood darts towards
the clear vial, all poison. This is
bad news. The psychiatrist is certain
she is not suicidal, nor ill, just seeking
attention and medication. This is
bad news. Afterwards Girl spears
the patients to their seats by breaking
their silent purgatory:
I’ll slit my throat in front of her.
Outdoors happens. There is a lapse
in memory, and judgement.
Cars are kicked, unfortunately. Voice
fulfils its purpose at a high pitch.
Strangers stare,
as normal.
___________
Naoise Gale is a poet from Huddersfield who writes about addiction and mental illness.
Her debut pamphlet After the Flood Comes the Apologies was published by Nine Pens Press in 2021 and won 3rd prize in the Poetry Book Awards. She was the winner of the Ledbury Poetry Competition 2022.
These poems were chosen by Guest Editor HLR.
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