Dough/Dej

 

Dough

She eats only white industrial bread. Two of her children are lumps of dough, the third, that boy she had by an African man, is made of fire. They cannot sleep in the same room. Each time she goes to the mosque she reminds herself to ask the imam to look for a suitable husband for her. Preferably a baker or one with an oven.

after dark the flow of cars dwindle

But she has little luck. The imam doesn't speak her language and she doesn't speak his. By the ritual washing of the face she forgets to avoid her mouth. In the contact with water and hands it disappears like when you smooth out cracks in a bread before you bake it. The fiery boy kisses her and it takes weeks before she can talk or eat again.

outside the candy store blueredyellow stars in the tarmac

--*--

Dej

Hun spiser kun hvidt industribrød. To af hendes børn er klumper af dej, den tredje, den dreng hun fik med en afrikansk mand, er lavet af ild. De kan ikke sove i samme værelse. Hver gang hun går til moskeen, minder hun sig selv om, at spørge imamen, om han vil lede efter en en passende ægtemand til hende. Helst en bager eller én, der har en ovn.

efter mørkets frembrud svinder strømmen af biler ind

Men hun har ikke heldet med sig. Imamen taler ikke hendes sprog, og hun taler ikke hans. Ved den rituelle vaskning af ansigtet glemmer hun, at undgå munden. I kontakten med vand og hænder forsvinder den, som når man glatter revner ud på et brød, før det skal bages. Den brændende dreng kysser hende, og der går uger, før hun kan tale eller spise igen.

uden for slikbutikken rødeblågule stjerner i asfalten

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file date: November 19, 2014