The French Child.

Unadulterated, a French child looks up at me.

He, child, I, adult. His eyes large, serious with the

wisdom of the unspoiled.

His mouth round, sensuous with the fullness of

youth.

The nose molten within his cherubic face; only an

appendage, as if he needed no air in his narcissistic

self-sustenance.

The child reflects his own being within dark pupils

quietly scanning my soul.

He takes my whole self within the realm of his senses

and, though no word passes between us, I feel a tacit

conspiracy of cognizance; a still bond, eerie in the silence.

He, the child, innately relying on his natural grace;

I, the adult, uneasy in the nakedness of discovery.

I feel strangely divested of pretense, rendered impotent

amid habit, denuded of mannerism.

Within the silent face, bare.

I become the thwarted girl in the rigid cloth of

precocious honesty, frozen into futile social quality,

cut from the sensual cord, frigid; dismayed by

the curve of a child’s lip - that vestigial remnant

of continuum that disappears with need into the

grown up years, shrunken by shame,

atrophied by reason.

The child has no want for all I’ve learned. He stands

confident in the chaste ego, expecting nothing

but sensual equality.

I am within the existential moment that very child:

sexless, timeless; myself and all mankind.

Almost sad, almost hopeful, but fully present

in beauteous omniscience.

Heat –

I pant.

No sweat on my brow,

but a trickle descends

upon my chest and tickles

as I follow this only sign of life

at the moment,

I live.

Heat –

The sand,

disturbed by cattle,

shifts in ground wind

and mounts in little dunes

against the dry cakes of manure;

the only signs of other life

at the moment,

I breathe.

Heat –

I walk

toward the windmill,

tower of galvanized steel

in a canyon, boulder-oven,

a sudden zephyr brushes the blades

above the zinc trough and I taste

anticipation within,

a last illusion

below.

Heat –

I stagger.

my feet burn in sandals,

tears have become salt on dry cheeks,

itchy reminders of irrelevant pain.

I slump in moist dirt, digging,

to feel yet another sign of life

among other necessities

that must suffice –

water,

now.

Heat –

I don’t care about mankind,

there are lizards to play

with my children in the sand,

there are snakes to fear underfoot,

and coyotes to sing along

with us on slow nights:

sounds of the wild

to shiver by,

together.

Alone.

Heat –

thick,

tongue swelling,

thoughts blurring

into hot hills around me,

reality fades behind creosote;

bushes-spectres of hyper-truth,

relativity tainted with imagination,

mingled with fear of man,

with apprehension;

I don’t care anymore,

tremble.

Heat –

I want

to see the children,

to look by way of the sun,

to fade in our day without end,

to tell them of my search for food,

about the jackrabbit that darted by,

tripping me in mutual confusion, animal

and prey not knowing which way;

then all we’ll have to eat

will be the yucca seed

and a handful of grain

to boil away again,

to survive.

Heat –

I will love,

but I won’t tell

about their father who left

in search of a bottle behind a job.

I won’t tell why I cried, why my left arm

doesn’t move; but I’ll love them fiercely,

my reason, my vision, my only sanity now,

out of focus I see the small trailer,

three little forms on sand,

I laugh a crackly roar,

They offer a dusty jug

of tepid water

kept for me

to return . . .

Heat –

No matter!

Suppertime

Every day

thirty minutes before dusk,

I waited by the porch

and held my children still.

Eyes riveted to the west,

we breathed in unison;

neither moving, nor smelling,

we became as invisible

as rocks on a hillside.

Precisely as expected,

the coyote would appear,

two pointy ears bouncing

above bunch grass

at a trot, then,

he would cautiously hesitate

at the edge of sand,

galloping, neither eager

nor foolish,

toward the offering,

a stack of rabbit skin

and entrails of a freshly

denuded animal.

He would sniff the air

with sharp nose held upward

and little white teeth

showing through open snout,

pointed straight at us

with feigned aloofness.

We would then bow to the food,

turn back, and repeat his trotty

steps, back to the dry beyond.

We would wait until tail

and ears melted in

the parched weeds,

and then one more minute;

walk carefully to the stash

and observe it was still there,

drying and rotting in the Sun.

The next day would be the same,

ants and black beetles

crawling about the party.

On the third day we would wash up

and become rocks

in the crepuscule hour,

eyes searching the horizon.

The coyote would come

to the planned rendez-vous

with a nervous stance;

eyes darting above silent smile.

He would hesitate just an instant

at the dead olive tree,

then run a few bounds

to the now putrid viscera.

His teeth would crush live maggots,

the fur sliding with the guts

down his ugly throat, at a gulp.

Then-

he would turn to us,

look, directly, at us;

a long, long stare,

lower his head, just once,

then turn away, nose to the breeze.

We would return to the shack

in pensive silence,

and eat rabbit meat tortillas,

feeling complete.

Nadine Sellers is an intrepid French writer; this papivore has been known to consume reams in one setting, like ice-cream and whole dandelions. She lives in the belly of the Beast, rural Missouri, close to the bull's eye of  the Midwest; After Death Valley, tornado alley looks deceptively inviting.

Having evaporated a lifetime of scattered lectures and performances in Europe and U.S., she finds solace in facelessness. Spotty publication in French anthologies and  a smattering of readings and commentaries on radio have spread her spoken word and music to uncomfortable stretches.

Nadine has trodden the weedy path of career neglect in the pursuit of nomadic sustenance. Close to bone in lean times and deep in flesh through abundance, she tells of abandonned ancestors and adoptive lands.  She translates the imigrant into the ordinary, mapping universal feelings across humanity. 

Now reclusive, Nadine is currently at work on a compilation of stories.  She can hear the words hurling down the road.  You can contact Nadine by This e-mail address is being protected from spam bots, you need JavaScript enabled to view it or at her  MySpace profile.

Last update : 09-01-2008 11:13

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