Camille Brougher
At Night
It’s hard to fight an enemy who has outposts in your
head.
--Sally Kempton
These are the things that keep her. Her
husband is going blind. Her brother is the favorite. Her cat may be possessed.
With an evil spirit. You look in its eyes. Her daughter is growing breasts. Her
mother hates her husband. Says his eyes are creepy. Her Reiki Master laid hands
on her head. He scrambled her mind. Her mother hates her poverty. Her mother had
a breakdown. Her brother has grown up better than she has. He drinks and beats
his wife. Her Reiki friends spun energies on her keys. They spun her necklaces.
They spun her magazines. They went inside her house while she was at the movies.
And they are asking every question. What she did. Where was she. To test her.
And her chakras. Her father died when she was sixteen. Her first son should be
an artist. Her second son steals from the mall. They don’t have a basketball
hoop. Her husband has one leg. Her husband drinks too much. The witches tapped
her phone. The witches put her in a trance for two days. She knows who it is.
They’re coming in. Through the portals. Her husband doesn’t get it. Her
husband works in Bullhead. Her husband makes no money. She needs to crush the
serpent. She needs to be a CPA. Her business is accounting. She hates
accountants. She wants to be a counselor. She needs to watch Shine. She
needs the color black between her legs. Black holds her feet to the ground.
Witches see through the eyes of her cat. Her mother hates her house. Her mother
hates her life. She can’t keep it clean. She is caught inside a riddle. Her
Reiki Master put symbols inside her head. She can’t get them out. He put a
blue moon in her eyes. He laid hands on her head. They’re homing in on her.
They cast the rune. What will you do if they come. Whatever it takes.
Okay.
Her brother raped her mother. Her cousin took his life. She needs to string
beads. She needs to create patterns. They manipulated the rune. She sees the
pretty kitties. Who is the head of the center. She needs to know. She needs to
make kitty necklaces. She has to use yellow and orange and red. She will call
them and they will tell her what colors to wear. They can get her out of the
riddle. She needs a green dragon to wear on her head. Give her the bike helmet.
Because it’s a green dragon. She has to put on this red robe. She has to put
those black skates between her knees. She needs lots of Nano Babies. For
protection. Lots of Nano Babies. She feels their vibrations. They help her push
against the energy. The shaking inside her stomach. She needs the pretty
kitties. She needs a carrot. She needs to know what colors. She doesn’t feel
safe. She needs the art of Tsing-i. Her insides vibrate. And won’t stop.
Because of blue. Turn it off. Blue makes her vibrations too fast. She hears the
buzz. Turn it off. She hears the snake. In her ears. Witches are behind the
rattle. They do it to spin her energies. She needs a carrot right now. She doesn’t
need to eat. Her daughter is trying to run away. Take off her daughter’s
jacket so she can’t leave. She has to hold the carrot in both hands. She has
to walk around so they can’t locate her. She has to break the carrot in two
pieces. One for each hand. She sees the countenance on her palm. Who is the
heart of the center. You don’t know how important silver is to her. Because
you are a little wobbly. Silver is for her to know. And you to find out. She
knows who it is. She knows the soup is enchanted. She has to find the portals.
She has to pour soup on her breast. The portals are open on the floor. They’re
open. Her friends will tell you. She needs you to meet them. They see you
through her eyes. She’ll introduce you. She needs you to talk to them. And you’ll
see. They will call on the phone right now so you will believe her. Believe her.
She’s holding the city. She’s keeping it safe. She can’t shut her eyes.
Whose heart does she hold in her hands. God holds your heart in his hands.
Okay, good.
They put her in a trance. She couldn’t stop them. She knows that Jupiter
and Mars are lining up. She needs to shake her wrists. The Blessing Way. Can he
teach her to tie tea. Okay. Will he teach her to bundle the tea. Okay. Can you
ask him. Okay. They think they have her. But they’re trapped in a box. The
energy catches in the corners of the square. They just think. They have her. She
needs a five-sided box. She knows who it is. They’re trapped in the ritual.
Will he teach her to tie tea. Okay. Who is the center. She has to talk to him.
Please tell her. Okay. She doesn’t feel safe. They can’t make her. Her chest
hurts. She won’t go that way. Who is the heart. They can’t make her. Put
black on the portals. Please. Close the portals. She needs you to.
3
It feels like everything is back to normal. How it used to be. How it’s
going to be better. He makes you potato and spinach breakfasts. You drink coffee
around the table and talk about the money, where it comes from, where it goes.
And how he quit his job to stay close to home. To be there just in case. To
dress and feed the kids and get them back in school.
And you watch movies on TV. Buy a fifty-pound box of navel oranges. Sew
mountains onto cloth. Check the mail. You buy the cat a red collar. And demons
no longer yellow her eyes. You pass the Circle K on Fourth Street, turn left to
your office. Straighten the taxes, adjust the books. Buy birthday presents for
your first son. A Baskin-Robbins cake. You cook soups. Black bean. Cheddar
potato. Beef stew. And eat out of blue flowered bowls. Your sons set the table.
Napkins, cups, and spoons. Your mother-in-law bakes bread.
But the dishes collect flies. And the toilet seat unhinges, is ringed with
pubic hairs. Your second son walks mud across the tile. The fresh broccoli turns
liquid, seeps out the fridge. The toilet paper is gone. The paper towels are
gone. The freezer is empty. The ice cubes evaporate. Strange cars park on your
street. Your second son rolls dead grass into the carpet. You forget what comes
next. It’s easier to pace than to sleep. Your mother might call. Greasy pants
crumple on the floor. The cat box overflows and litter crunches under your
slippers. Your nightgown is stained with coffee. The folded clean T-shirts and
boxers drop on the living room carpet. And thicknesses of mud and jeans and
grassy sweaters layer on chili-specked flannels. Layer on teal satin underwear.
And spread and build and weigh until the floor sinks away. For a moment a
scattered crust of laundry floats apart like North Atlantic ice. Broken pieces
that sink and swell above the foundation. And you feel as if you can walk across
on solid ground.
3
When you roll into a ball sometimes I wish I could take you up close with my
arms holding tight around your arms tucked inside like a child, and you’d be
safe right there. And we could breathe as if in sleep. And the sky would ease
open and warm olive oil would pour from it into your head and smooth the paths
into place. We would sit there coated greasy for a while. We would sleep
contented. And then during the night your arms and legs and mind would stretch
open on the earth, rest on the soil and smooth river rocks and your fingers
would curl loosely around space.
Instead we washed dishes at my house like we used to when I was a lousy
housekeeper. We folded my laundry and we washed big pots and frying pans and you
put away the mustard or something in the refrigerator, and I told you what you
already know, that I still collect rotten zucchinis if you look too close so don’t.
And then you saw something you knew was real. You found my bad habits. And the
fermented pea soup in my crockpot. And you opened the lid and the smell and
scraped the mold and slime and peas into the trash and tied it up. And we passed
the crockpot through soapy bleach water and dug for the dishrag, and rinsed and
dried and straightened up my faults.
And I keep telling you what you already
know. That when you talk I know your voice. And your textures and your grammar
and your laughs and where you put them when you speak. And I do. I know your
feet and your chin, the way you walk and your movements. Your brown eyes, what
they look like when they know they know something. Your hands and the tiny bones
of your fingers. |