variation of a broken villanelle (i, ii, iii)
by Thao Vu
VARIATION OF A BROKEN VILLANELLE (I)
armed with a full set of teeth she was attached to the baby puree
when nights were unbearable she woke up inhaling cream of wheat
too hot it scorched her tongue in the swelling a candied disarray
axed holidays cracked ashtrays of yesterday dashed up the stairways
staggered to her aid flipped a table where she cowered in retreat
he licked green blood where monsters devoured the baby puree
he left her for a city mentioned in screenplays for its subways
cleansed his palette on tongues of women who ate clean and lived neat
he wanted to scrub the smell of ramen cups candied in disarray
she left messages about overhead music played on third dates
it hurt she cried a solidified affliction from oral pundits
sore gum reminded her of how he mopped the sweet baby puree
nothing was immaculate trains ran on perpetual soiled slates
cracked through ice smashed the golden gates trains rumbled in repeat
in commute and in bed twisted flesh pounded to a candied disarray
it took him years to find Nirvana with a redhead in acetate lace
he was no man and she was no woman Bodhi trees lockstep in dusty heat
the baby loved what she used to love spoon-fed her the baby puree
traces wiped clean memories of a kitchen table candied in disarray
VARIATION OF A BROKEN VILLANELLE (II)
Armed with a full set of teeth, she was attached to the baby puree.
Teeth.
In fifth grade, I befriended a child actress who was the first to impress upon my young mind the bougie idea of unicorn breeding – she was, in no order of importance, exceptionally pretty, smart, rich, and strange and lonely. I remember her house, a sizable townhouse on one of the most covetous streets in town. I remember how, when we hosted sleepovers, the mums warmed milk for this exotic unicorn/girl, because at twelve, she still did not know how to chew. I remember listening intently to my mum divulging about the unicorn/girl on the way to school. “What do you mean she eats herself? Didn’t you say she can’t chew?” I asked, more curious than cruel (I only learned jealousy years later). “Well, only herself, she only eats herself,” my mum said, “Look at her nails. But don’t stare, would you? They said she kept biting on her nails, half of every nail on her left hand, until her heart gave out. She had a heart attack, months in critical care, just last year.” Critical care. “Why?” I stared down at my pink fingers, my nails were scratched on the surface but otherwise uniform and neatly trimmed. “Impulse,” my mum stopped at a red light, “Who knows?” She gripped my bone tight. I learned two new words that day. I remember trying to get close to the unicorn/girl during lunch, forgetting about my mother’s etiquette. I stared at her teeth mark on the plastic straw until she noticed me, her brown eyes all big and innocent, like doves flying from her soul. I just grinned and gestured her to look at my own yellow teeth.
He licked green blood where monsters devoured the baby puree.
Blood.
I grew jealous remembering the unicorn/girl and her useless set of white teeth. Not of her but of the fact that she might have grown into a strange and lonely woman who stumbled into the café downstairs one day for a decaf and unknowingly seduced a long line of women, men, and two-spirited enchanters I once coveted, exes and mothers, addiction and compulsion. Even my platonic husband who was there for a butter croissant. He couldn’t shake off the lavender scent she breathed. He shuddered when she walked past, his deadpan world shaken to the core. Discrete and vain, my husband wore a crisply ironed shirt the next morning, a new blue or white shirt every day (I only bought him those two colors) for seven days in a row, hoping to bump into the unicorn/girl again, hoping she would notice his shirt and his ring and deduced by the yearning look on his face that, though unattractive, he could physically and financially handle an affair. “Good for them,” I thought, suddenly fuming at my husband who was toiling away with the price curves two floors above from where I was toiling away with plastic spoon designs (he worked in purchasing and I in sales, for a company that made instant porridge). “The fuck did I do with my life –” anger pounded on my regrets. The boy whom I went to school with, whom I defended through bitter fights, the man whom I stupidly married without a prenup, to settle down with miscellaneous, ordinary days. I could see him happy with her. I could see him beaming. Incendiary, how the unicorn/girl could take anyone without lifting a finger and without intent. I was so angry that I bled. How I had bled for them all.
Cleansed his palette on tongues of women who ate clean and lived neat.
Tongue.
In that distorted memory, I rode my scooter to work on the same street that I had taken the bus to school. I married a loyal friend and built a family with one spoiled child, where in fact I had no friend, where in truth I was the pretty, strange, and lonely unicorn girl who spent a night drugged up in the ER, biting on her tongue, dreaming about lies to tell mum when the sun came up.
Sore gum reminded her of how he mopped the sweet baby puree.
Gum.
In that distorted memory, I had two families, a childhood, and certainly a body. Well, none of those, sorry, memories lied for their beauty. A unicorn girl only grew attached to two earthly possessions – the horn on her head and the flesh inside her mouth.
In commute and in bed, twisted flesh pounded to a candied disarray.
Flesh.
I waited as the woman called Eve had waited in an ancient story known for being old, for an extra rib stolen from a vain man. Eve made a world with eight billion people from a rib. While sharpening a knife to butcher the man, I decided between a world to roam and a body to rest.
it took him years to find
a Soul.
VARIATION OF A BROKEN VILLANELLE (III)
baobei[1], put a toddler on the kitchen table he
left the kettle hissed the babe baring teeth
baobei, she was busy making cream of wheat she
tipped the pot, scorched the babe, a disarray
axed that cưng[2] cracked that love staggered the
domestication she cowered he retreated the dance
beat cưng licked that blood off his lips before it
dripped liquid beets tainted the baby puree
he made money on screenplays about
subways, he paid to clean after her and
their baby. Tuesdays scrubbed the disarray
off his face, they nailed where she failed
she fell in love when he told the story of three ghosts
travelling the world on train, the woman swirled a
dust storm at the station, the man asked for her heart
cung just cooed pleasant, they gave it a sweet pop
three immaculate white ghosts dusting soiled slates
at the station, the wife ghost died of jealousy, a Chinese
the man a Viet, a vile death, holding his own hands
the gates rumbled when baby ghost whispered –
the train was late
when they reached Nirvana borough baby ghost
planted a Bodhi seed for a baby spoon, remember it
said, you reincarnate and steer away from each other
wipe clean, baobei, memories on the table a disarray
[1] 寶貝, “babe” in Chinese
[2] “babe” in Vietnamese
Photo of Thao Vu
BIO: Thao Vu graduated from Eastern Nazarene College, National Taiwan University, and is writing her debut novel through the MFA program at Virginia Tech (Blacksburg, VA). Her recent and forthcoming work can be found at Bending Genres, BULL, FlashFlood, Fork Apple Press, MockingHeart Review, THIMBLE, Villain Era, Zin Daily and at www.vuqythao.com.