Unsupervised One Saturday

At ten o'clock, one Saturday, 
I sellotaped razor blades all over my body 
and wondered why I did not become 
sharp. 

At twenty past ten, I wrote myself in 
as the recipient on all my cheques 
and wondered why I did not become 
rich. 

At quarter past eleven, I cracked all the eggs, 
hundreds of them, into one vast bowl 
and mixed them all together 
in an effort to understand 
the questions of life and motherhood, but 
the vast gluey mixture 
just sat there and shone in the morning sunlight, froth like 

spit. 

It was neither water nor air. 
It was bodyful and knowing. 
I thought I could hear it laughing. 
I tossed in all the egg shells, 
but it did not make it better. 
In fact, it made it 

worse. 

At five to twelve, I broke a living room window 
and wondered why my home did not fill with 

air.

At half past one, I threw all the books on the floor 
and wondered why the words did not mingle and mate and make more 

books.

At five to two, I looked in the mirror 
and saw that I bled from the razor blades and the broken glass 

and had bits of dried egg yolk on my glasses. 
I took my glasses off, rubbed my eyes 
and wished that I hadn't done 

any of it. 

Then I went and I filled every container with water 
and put each one on the floor. 
I made a museum of water. 

I made a regiment of a water army. 
I kept doing it. 
I couldn't remember if I'd done it before. 
The water vessels looked noble and various. 
It looked like a forest. 

I felt like 

a giant. 

Soon, the water rose up like a tide and carried me 
and my sellotape and razors and my books and my eggs, 
and we all flowed through the hole in the window 
and down the hill and into the river and 

away.