Eldest Daughter by Ava Leavell Haymon

Author:Ava Leavell Haymon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: LSU Press
Published: 2013-12-15T00:00:00+00:00

How Two Became One Again

Sestina’s Work Done

This is how she came to know it, the turning

of the lines and the spell of the numbers.

The anagram in the name never occurred

to her at all. Formal rules—repeating six words

sex/woman/sin/enough/heart/voice seven times

each—snatched the narrative out of her hands

and wheeled her away. The scars on her hands

thrum, It’s my fault: I forced the door marked NO, turned

the iron key long as a carving knife. How many times

is a child told, Look at this? Who keeps numbers

on such charming commands? How often do those words

imply a twin phrase, Not at that? It never occurred

to her to disobey, and soon half a universe never occurred,

slipped out the door one event after another, holding hands

with the homeless twin, a dirty child who was never taught words.

From then on, there were two. One who turned

smiling to Mama, source of alphabet, songs, numbers,

nursery books in blue/yellow/gold, source of good times

approved for memory. Another who waited for the bad times,

grew sullen, hoarded the events which never occurred,

invented a language of stutters and widened eyes, a number system

based on lost teeth, a broken chair, nutshells. Your father’s hands

disappear behind his back, and when it’s your turn

to choose, you point: One fist reappears, he speaks no words.

The fingers open: It’s empty. If this game had words,

what would they be? How many times

does the smiling child choose, before her luck turns?

What if the mother is right, and none of it ever occurred?

What if the day she burned the smiling child’s hands,

she put out the eyes of the twin who watched? The numbers

count backwards, sleep is on the way. Who remembers the number

she got to, before she started back down? Six/I want/five—her words

grow faint—four/three/I didn’t want/two. Hands

that tried to shove the mask away sag open in sleep. Time

suspends. Scalpel does its work—clitoris, memory. It never occurred,

the mother is right again, she’s waiting the daughter’s return.

But, Look at this! The surgery turned out wrong. The numbers

reverse again, No/Yes. Whatever never occurred babbles into words.

The twins are reattached. This time: one child, two eyes, two hands.

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