J. MarahuyoPanoptes:
Mother with her gilded champagne hair,
seemingly infinite blue eyeballs, needed no cameras,
not when she had a real time feed from her
many plucked out eyes discreetly hidden in immaculate
room top corners, in any book that had o’s
and in all door knob key holes.
But, best of all, was in the skull
of the doll that roamed the house
recording every movement, every word spoken
whenever Mother was not home.
Doll:
The doll walked into our lives,
built a house, drove us to school.
My sister, Buwan, and I would chat to it
wanting to be welcoming, warm. One afternoon
Mother commented we were great entertainment,
beckoned the doll over, plugged its eyes into the projector
showed us a clip of that morning’s events.
We stopped being friendly.
We spent the first 40 minutes of the following x years
staring out the car window
watching traffic snake around houses, the sun stalk
us before we got out.
We grumbled gratitude.
Mother loved to boast of the doll’s endless supply
of pure gold eggs,
each more delicious than the last, she said.
We were never allowed a taste.
Family:
In my 13th year a new baby came,
tucked in a manger, almost
lost in the mail. He was
the most beautiful baby brother.
The doll’s makers: a couple of golden geese
came to live with us, one exclaimed they would be called
‘lolly’ to pay homage to our heritage and the other
did not bother feigning interest.
Buwan and I were excited to meet new family
so we chattered, quizzed,
but Mother pulled us aside and said,
“Stop bothering them. They don’t want to talk
to either of you.
They’re here for their only grandson. ”
Buwan continued with her questions.
Me? I slunk up to my room,
laid in bed and sent my thoughts
to the fairy realm with my hand reaching for
the ceiling, turning it periodically, wondering
if someone, somewhere would ever kiss my palm.
Buwan:
Buwan liked to antagonise, just a little,
leaving notes on her door like,
‘Not today, I’m tired’,
knowing Mother would react
with a shout that caused the house to tremble
before charging in anyway,
to make sure Buwan met her
quota of tears for the day.
When Buwan cried it was through
a cold glare
and a toss of black hair
Mother never left until Buwan waned,
shat out a smile.
Mother’s Mirror:
Every so often Mother would brush my hair.
Today was a little different as she stared at my
changing body,
“Now that your breasts and hips are coming through
I think it’s best if I start collecting your tears too.
A new job. A new title. Think of it
as a promotion
my pretty little flower,
my perfect echo.”
Yes was always the answer even if I didn’t
understand. She rewarded me with a sparkling blue
candy, popping it into my mouth. I turned
to the mirror, saw
my pink insides stain silvery blue
which always perked her up.
Mother took my chin and turned my head
so I was facing her again
her infinite blue eyeballs reflected brilliantly
against my metallic mouth.
(Mother doesn’t know
Buwan has been stealing
small golden eggs from the doll.)
“Who is the most wise?”
Mother is.
“Who is always right?”
Mother is.
“Who knows everything?”
Mother does.
