The Spell Chanted By Lambs
The nurse is from Martinique. She is one of those gorgeous delicate mulatto girls. If she is from good stock (like this one, who has taken my hand and is pumping) one can either fall in love with her or if his loving blade is dull he can only stare at the back of her delicate ears or at the strand of hair beneath her ear, and softly tell her in a voice that sounds as if it’s coming from the depth of a bleak cellar, “You don’t have to measure my pressure jigar, you’ll get tired.” And express it as if you’re chanting one of those ancient spells; one of those spells chanted by lambs when they put henna on their forehead before taking them to slaughterhouse; spells that I always chant. Because they often chop off a piece of me and give it to the dogs. Because there is always something with me which is extra; absolutely extra.