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Columns - Luna Park
by Alessandra Carnaroli




Margin: edge, hem, contour, fringe, flap, edge, brow. I had just told you to rest a moment in my bed because maybe you were tired after a day at school the exercises on page 104 of the book the third declension of Latin I had told you to rest your butt on the edge not a centimeter further forward right in that exact spot where I remember there was still a splash of blood just barely left after a washing machine cycle at 90 degrees the prewash with bleach. I told you give me just enough time to answer the intercom get a glass of water something that rhymes with aperitif the packet of Kleenex what did you understand? Not a hammer the only one I had now is in a plastic bag awaiting trial it is still stained with red like acab or w writing the pussy above the shutter of the center but also with some skin residue a tuft of hair. I told you not to take up too much space lie on the edge of the sheet straight as a clothes peg at 12 you haven't fully developed yet and the fat is just a thin outline a curve on the hips that you caress with your hand the same one used by all males to shave unclog sinks cut bread hang a picture on the wall. You had to wait in your underwear for my arrival just long enough to open the door say no thanks I don't need Jehovah send the package back to the sender say hello to a friend who happened to be passing by and then I would have come back to take my place in bed what is due to me as head of the family you as I was saying straight practically a joint and I the plant that slowly wraps itself around me the belt and you the wasp waist that narrows under my real skin. I measure with my palm the blanket that separates us I remove with my back the space that remains a shadow of gray matter a few human hairs the noise of the blow inflicted on my wife the blow that had become deaf so much so that she no longer had ears the jet of blood like sweets in the parade of floats a little bit confetti a little bit streamers as they jumped like oil that fries in the pan the small bones of the forehead. Now I crush with the weight of my whole body the shape of the corpse still imprinted in the mattress like wine on the tablecloth when you move the glass like a holy shroud and sweat a mixture of flesh and wool of cries of goose feathers as I get closer and you notice my presence you shrink small small woman like a worm you retract your horns you return to the snail's house you become a flap of flesh human fold that almost makes me feel sorry for you margin where you remain balanced on your back on my Adam's apple while I try to mount you like a pony you overlap like carbon paper like tracing paper on the figure of my wife who became an ex after death became a draft dragged into the wastebasket with a creak of the neck. I, a self-confessed criminal, see her eyes again between your lashes coming out of their sockets like a ball when you push her under water I see her fingers squeezing the air becoming livid the lungs deflating like armbands as soon as you return to shore. You move like she moved you try to dodge me to do the feints you are the player who runs away on the counterattack on the sideline I your father and opponent I commit a foul against you for me second yellow card call an ambulance bring the stretcher again. Now you remain still hanging from my legs like shoes on the nail every blow of the hard cock reminds me of the handle that rammed her skull the frontal lobes becoming small icebergs the fringe sinking like the titanic. I still remember your mother's body floating on most of the bed the brain that comes off in pieces like a cortex.