Sep 15

Sep 15 Answer by Jeanne Viray

Baby Teeth Journal

Poetry, Prose

Answer

( Out of the eater, something to eat.

Out of the strong, something sweet. )

— Judges 14:14

A prayer. / Last night, a storm felled a eucalypt tree on my neighbour’s roof. This morning, I picked it up and placed it on the nature strip. My neighbour, her name is Rosa, thanked me with lemon bars. So tonight, I’m placing a bunch of fleece in a bowl of water and I’m waiting. Allow me one more test. Then He’ll answer and then I’ll know why I’m strong and what kind of stuff I’m really supposed to carry. Amen. Very truly yours. And… yeah.

Seraph! / Your shoes are wet from dewdrops. Ducks waddle along the garden, journeying to the verdant supermarket. Manna hidden in the undergrowth. Something like that. Anyway. Perilous stuff. Please, make parking lots and bus-stops of the grass and let them pass safely, for it is said the soft and quacking will inherit the earth.

‘It’s not my job,’ you say. Well. I pick up a stick and start to unfold the leaves, while you hold my long hair back with your hand. I think you’re obsessed with it. My hair. You tell me it’s important. Sure. You tell me something about how I am called to be a Judge, and that’s why I’m strong. That’s why you’re here. The ducks have waddled off to the left. I tell you I’ve tried to not judge anyone since 2010.

How long will you stay this time? / I never noticed your freckles before this. We’re here, along council rivers, on a cold, curved silver bench. Hostile architecture. I’ll flatten a few benches to make a few beds.

We drink cooled hot chocolate in KeepCups. Thin-skinned, you feel each metal rod dig into your sitting bones. Your feet point to mine, and point away again. Many late nights jogging with noise-cancelling earphones all around the other side of the river, tracking mud. Looking to save someone. It’s a fulltime job, I know. Can’t you just use your wings? Your knees still shake from the high-impact jogging so we put our KeepCups in our bags and I carry you in my arms all the way home.

‘I can’t hold your hand like this,’ you say. You try anyway, seeking it out from under you. You still want to drink something so you take the bobby pin from my hair and strike the rock in front of my apartment, and hot chocolate comes spilling forth.

Angels. / How fancy! Waiting in line for a calamaro or a drumstick, these winged-coats. Such posh. Dandies with Dad too far away so they’re chain-linked to no Body, no Son, only to the smell of authentic bread and the sound of its breaking every afternoon tea. With a Kombucha glass in their right hand. I never should’ve started coming to these committee meetings. No wine, thank you. ‘Can you still fight a lion?’ an angel asks. Huh? ‘Baby, just take the minutes.’ Okay. I’m taking the minute, taking three. The angels keep their wings aloft and wonder why there’s never any space anywhere they go. They call me a Judge and tell me it’s time for my comeback. To remember all my Biggest Hits. They’re trying to speak in a way I can understand since Old Speak doesn’t work. They tell me to watch out for scissors. They spit when they talk. I’m never acting as your proxy again.

Jesus, I sigh. The angels gasp. I will not include that in the minutes. I’ll see you later.

Seraph, your name is Debora. / That’s what it says on your ID. I’ve never liked a name so much. It’s precious to me now. I notice every mention of a Debora and, like, how dare they use it when it’s yours. Your lips are thin, your cheek is soft, your chest softer. On your back are lightning-strike scars. Six of them. Sometimes I see them flutter. Your hair is parted in the middle and your fringe is too long over your eyes. You’ve misplaced your sword. Your head is on my lap, looking up at me.

‘I don’t want anyone to see me,’ you say, and I list my head. My hair is your shield against the world, hiding both of us. ‘You’re meant to be a Judge. Do you remember yet?’ you ask. ‘Please tell me you remember.’ I still don’t know what to say to that. Your eyes darken, and I can’t tell why. I touch my nose to yours. I just want to be a good person.

‘Someone’s coming soon.’ Yes, the UberEats lady. I’ll have to get up when she comes. You’re not listening. ‘It’s the story. It’s how it works. She’ll try and take you from me.’ I don’t think they’re allowed to do that. That sounds like it’s against UberEats policy. ‘Look, just stay. No matter what anyone says. Stay.’

2AM. / The Guy speaks to me. He reminds me I am meant for greater things. Mmhmm. For lions and armies and tearing down columns. Why else would He have given me my strength, he says. For lifting fallen trees? Uh, no. Not just that. For opening jars. For holding every single shopping bag from the bus-stop to the door. For carrying Debora across a threshold. For carrying Debora anywhere. For being a good dyke. I wake up from the dream. Your arm is around my stomach, fingers curling just under my breast. I get up and make a sandwich. I eat it. I go back to sleep.

Seraph? / You drop your bag by the door and there’s the jingle of silver coins. My hand keeps the door open to let you in. The wind closes it on my fingers once you are. The pain is fleeting, your panic is not. I’m more worried about the door. The same hand puts your things away so you can sit down. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,’ you cry as you sit. Maybe it’s not about the door. You come to me. What do you need? We could just sit, tell me how your day went, or we could be in my room. Let’s go to my room. Your dress is off in a second and so is my shirt. I hold you. We don’t have sex. We sort of never do. I mean, what is sex anyway? A raw and delicate situation. Object permanence. An answer to something. Like a cake. I just hold you.

I’m sitting on the floor. You sit on the edge of the bed, legs on either side of me. My back is to you. It’s like we’re ten years old again. Wait, were you ever ten? ‘Shush.’ Okay. What were you before this? Were you always meant to find me? Did you have odd jobs working on the Seraphim God Squad before becoming a full-time talent scout? ‘I’ve always known you were here.’ Because of what I’m meant to be. ‘No. I’ve always known you were here. On this earth.’ It’s not an answer. Your eyes look so old. I see myself in them. You kiss me. That’s an answer.

Use one of my scrunchies to tie off the braid you’re making with my hair. You ask, ‘do you know the song that goes like…?’ Humming a song that I absolutely do not know goes like that. Wiping off your tears. You keep humming like it’ll come to you. Deb. You’re not happy with this braid so you try another one. Fishtail. I’m playing on your phone, intent on giving you high-scores. God, do you even play these games? My head leans against your leg, my cheek scrapes against the inside of your thigh. I’m playing Tetris. My head turns a little, until my lips are there on your thigh. Can’t help it. Kiss. Just one. There’s not much else to do when you’re tugging on my hair. The fishtail braid is done. Finally. You finish with a violent tug. Ow. You ask what I want for dinner. We eat. We fall asleep on the couch during the news. A house was on fire. A man is dead. If I look, I get angry. We sleep.

Jolt. You wake and tell me you were visited by that same Guy. You get up. Cry a little more. Cover your chest with your arms. ‘When was — when was —’

You’re hiccuping, Deb. I’ll get you a glass of water.

‘No. When was — the last time you had a haircut?’

No. / I see it now. I’ve done it before. Teeth sunken into the palms of my hands. Spittle and blood on my face. A human roar. A lion’s roar. Bone crunching under the pressure of my anger. And my pride. This came to me as a memory while I waited in line at Woolies. It’s my turn to come up with dinner tonight. But Woolies doesn’t have a lion that died by my hands, nor a swarm of bees that created a beehive in its carcass, and I have no parents to give the honey to. I have no patience for riddles. God, you don’t know me at all. Do you think I could fight a lion? Do you think I could kill one? I watched the Lion King as a child. I didn’t grow up like you wanted me to.

It’s okay. / I mean it. I say it and nothing more. You swore you would cut my hair if I broke my given purpose. And lying disagrees with you. It’s okay. This is the first time I’ve seen you with your wings, I should stay in the moment. They’re too big for you, Deb. You gesture behind you. ‘I don’t — I don’t like —’ I nod. We’ll figure your wings out later.

When it’s done, you hold your sword in one hand and my severed hair in the other. Before the shave is the cut. We did it just before dawn because neither of us could sleep. My head feels lighter. You raise my cut braid up to the sky. The dawn comes quicker because it wants to see. I hand you a tissue for your stained cheeks, and then my hands for your shaking fingers. Cut off a little bit more. Here are the hair clippers. Make it smoother. This is the story, right? If He wants it, He’ll get it. I’ve never really paid attention to your sword but now it’s resting on my knees as you shave my head. Like it was just one of the hairdressing tools used by the aunt I used to go to for cheap haircuts.

‘Careful, it’s heavy.’

I hold it up.

Debora. / You’re all right. Come back to bed. There’s cake for us. From Woolies. The fury of the wind roars beyond the windows, off to weed us out. But there’s no service in a storm. We’ve both placed our phones on my top-most bookshelf so we will send and receive when able. I think the angels are mad I did the minutes wrong. Good. The sky has closed to us. Not much to see now. The ants will probably find the cake. This is way too much mud cake on my bed for me to be happy about it. And why? Because you think using your sword to cut the cake is funny and there’s a piece of hair in it now, thanks. You laugh. Drop the sword somewhere. ‘Shh, sorry...’ My right palm under my left, you place a bite-sized piece of cake into my hands and bless my lips.

An acoustic HOLY, HOLY, HOLY comes from your lips as your fingers trace the curve of my shaved head. ‘…Mm, spiky,’ you whisper. Fingers. Tracing my head.

Someday my hair will grow back. And somehour the storm will end. And your wings, well, we’ll figure them out like I said. Is there another way to get back home other than flying? For now, just call in sick. Let your sword rust, I’ll get some fish oil from my neighbour tomorrow. Stay with me. Lie with me. Eat with me. We’ll get used to tomorrow.

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