Art: Purple Portico by Diane Clancy
She lost her earring last night: in her sleep: she was dreaming in French. She woke up today forgetting how to wear her face. No sign. Pillows, blanket, mattress, not there: must’ve left it somewhere between the dark and Paris. Purposeless now, the remaining pair rests in the shell of her hand, guarded by her purplelashed eyes. I should return you to the sea, she thought struggling as she recalls the last time she saw the sea. Yesterday. Rotten routine forgotten: a little poison to memory every now and then. She reminds herself that it’s just out of the window: dark drab drawn drapes. She sees her reflection: she never liked mirrors: not sure if she’s the spectator or the spectacle. When was the last time you let the dark be contained in the light? But she must return what belongs to the sea.
Light. What sightless white. The first gust of wind smells like wine until the saltscented air settles and everything she comes contact with now is salt. The snotgreen sea. You can almost taste it, can’t you? She jerks remembering Mulligan. The pearl: she must return what belongs—. Snotgreen sea. The earring wings out of the window all the way down the. Ground anticipates it. She knew it will never reach the water. She didn’t care. It no longer belongs to that sea. A few moments ago, the snotgreen sea, the scrotumtightening sea has claimed it.
She must learn to wear her new face now is Tuesday, June 16, xxxx, 8:01. She could almost hear her father’s knocking on her door: today is her birthday. He insisted to take her out for lunch is on him of course. She would tell him she lost her earrings— the one he gave her five six years ago she could not remember. He would buy her new ones. Maybe purple ones. After all, everything came from purple. He would ask about her
-her plumdyed lashes: artificial, papa.
-her job: very well, I will lie.
-her mother: you mean, if I’m doing fine?
-her health: everything came from purple
He would frown. Four, she whispers remembering the creases he has on his forehead. He would chuckle: cigarette: and ask if it’s a line from a book she’s writing now is 8:06. What do you with so much distance between time now and time later? She asks herself. He would expect to find her reading when he arrives: better not disappoint. She took out a book from her long piled-up to-read: Mythologies. Where do you begin in this? She hears Stephen asking the boys. Anywhere, she thought: The Face of Garbo, 56.
Time now and time again: crispyellowed pages. She got the book from a second-hand bookshop: the cockroaches ate the last few pages: the scene of forgotten tastes like: An Idea <> An Event. Next.
Time later is time now is 8:09 her father is on the door. Too early, she thought as she makes towards the door. I haven’t learned to wear my new face yet, she hesitates but no matter. He is wearing a snotgreen-striped shirt, and his ever puckered brow: looks like a hawk in flight. Sometimes. She anticipates a glance of separateness: he did not disappoint. I haven’t learned to wear my new face yet, papa. She explains. Five now. The creases, he has five now.
-your eyelashes, they’re… purple.
-everything came from purple, papa.
Ma. Antonette Lofamia lives in Manila, Philippines. Published as Anya Lofamia, her works appear in Arsenic Lobster Poetry Journal (Spring 2015 Issue and the 2015 printed Anthology) and Plural Prose Journal. Currently, she is finishing her MFA at De La Salle University—Manila.