OF COURSE you mean what you say when you get over-excited and yell your spewing shit. Author and Marty Smith (Photo: Florence Charvin) Saying you don’t understand what you’re saying. The secretary, what does she know about the air and the bird? We see small and listen. You bet your beautiful neck is an alarm, Tama, oh Tama, in the yellow broken house, your eye rolls, the feathers of my neck pierce. I bet your pretty neck knows who’s in your scrambled egg house. Squeeze your neck, run down, your father is watching, watching. Dead naked women all over TV, helpless women all over the web. The strand of hair, Tama, of Marni’s hair – that you weave as a lining, inside and out, the connections of Marni’s fertilized egg and her broken yolk, dead mothers and living mothers and babies and death from … did you have to be so harsh? Does a man have to be so cruel? There you will build your nest, oh single Tama, twisting the stalks of the wild way through the hard blocks of the home way. (That is not true, says my man, they are other birds from afar.) Things do not go well for the birds who go to people of their own accord. When your birds turn their backs on you one by one, Stained Tama, oh, worry, worry – my heart grows small and hides. Fascination! Grabbing the embers of sorcery, from the prick of the thumb, a prick of blood, the dark shadow moving. Ha, pierce the eyes of man! Drink their blood! Blow them, Tama, thrill them to believe that we bear a drop of ruby devil’s blood shining on our tongues. Joy! pleasure! when your father’s eyes shine like blood in the sun. Tama, very sad, sat far below the rest of the birds, keeping a line of sight to the yellow-on-yellow house. Tama too small, to be left out in your smell of people. True-clear the sounds down the valley when she turns you back, the songs of silent birds, dogs on leashes and the quad bike, (I’m lost from a farm) – my heart clenches like a claw. Tama-too small to see slippery surfaces in humans. Oh, scared of dead birds in the fridge, I shout Alarm! and lift when he lifts the thing –īlast it! with the sound of the slide and slide through the sliding cover, I think, ok! while I punch to snuggle up next to you, dusted behind the top hat. Poor baby Tama in the house with the corner of the blank wall, flying blind, crashing into the corner. Little bird I am yet, and oh, I could not move, Tama, ear and eye around for danger, fearful bird, restless from the beginning. The sky descends dark and gloomy over Marnie’s farm. My man is reading to me on the stairs in the sun because she loves me.īut it’s not … no, slipping into trance, Tama, the cold change coming from the South, a smell of underwear pit floating in the wind.
We invited writer Marty Smith to have her magpie, Pecky, review Tama’s work. In Catherine Chidgey’s latest novel, The Axeman’s Carnival, the story is told by a compelling witch named Tama.
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