Face to Skin.

Damian Garside

“Hi boss
      hi

it’s me, the man
with the avocados

though today I have
            none

as you can see,
my basket is empty

not like the last time, should you remember
(how deep dark on the outside;
soft, buttery green within!),

they are all still so
unripe

rock hard in their pith.”

Obscured by the extent of the
overgrown foliage at the top of my garden (I must speak to the gardener!)
he asks permission to
make his descent
(the thirty-six steps down from
road level)
and (who knows?) perhaps
speak the words
I imagine him saying.
Before I can answer
he is three-quarters way down
and I am forced to think through
the potential financial liability to
what stories he tells me
(such the socio-econo-politico
class practicalities
that infest the synergies,
divide and
unite us.)

But the tale is a beauty:
truly twisting, snake-like
upon itself

a veritable ouroboros, a
perfect Mobius strip.

Not a PowerPoint slide in sight: just the
stark, unquestionable horror
of each festering store
(no qualms about near-stripping to
facilitate witness).

“Life is hard”
       he says, his
faced as wizened
as Avicenna's,

and though he
makes protestations of gratitude
the few rands I hand him for the ‘miracle medicine’
seem
more like accursed silver than the
golden largesse of
heart-bounteous charity.

Halfway up the steps (noticeably battling)
he turns and sort of
seems to promise
that once the medicine is bought and the pills
work their wizardry
that he shall return with avos of such size and
taste and unbelievable texture

so soft the green flesh, so
buttery sweet.




Litnet: 17 February 2004

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