by Kimberly Campanello
The master’s tools can never dismantle the master’s house.
He forbids us from knowing anything. From finding anything out. From unlocking the door, behind which we suspect there are so many more.
He doesn’t leave us alone, as you might have thought, with a ring of keys. He doesn’t leave us with a test after extracting a promise of obedience. Instead, he’s everywhere. He won’t leave us alone. We are given no keys. We don’t have the run of the house, luxurious beds, diamond chokers.
Instead, we do our work where we can.
He doesn’t leave us, ever. He hovers around our meals, our games, our songs. Every day, every night, he tells us things, sometimes in a short burst of speech, a tiny phrase. Sometimes he goes on for hours.
When he’s silent, we thrash in our beds, trembling for more. Will he ever tell us about the door? Will the door ever be a thing he talks about? We tarry at our work. We burn soup.
We ask about the door. He says we don’t care enough about the door for him to say anything about it. He says many things about himself, over and over again. He reassures us of his love more than once.
We get tired of this.
We get bolder.
We want to talk about the door.
We ask about the door again. He tells us to sit down. The question is too difficult to answer, he says. We are being unfair.
He talks about himself, about things, about us, but never about the door.
He won’t look at us anymore. We look at each other instead. We look at the others. And they look at us.
Still, we keep asking him about that door. We are really asking about all the little doors and rooms behind it. We are asking about the whole house.
We know because we saw the plans. The old woman shared them with us. They were in the cellar wrapped around old garlic bulbs to keep them dry. The old woman had known a time would come to unroll the crumbling paper in the light, to show the plans for the whole house.
She knows we have come at last to open these doors. She knows we have come to plumb the house’s depths. We have come to tear it down.
And we have come just in time because the plans are faded, almost invisible. The woman might have died. The garlic might have rotted into the paper. All might have been lost.
When no one is watching, we tattoo the plans onto our bodies in indigo blue. When we get through that door, we will always know where we are.
The old woman says the garlic is sprouting now that it’s seen some light. We look at each other. We have forgotten his name. We know where the door is. We have the plans.
Kimberly Campanello was born in Elkhart, Indiana, and is a dual American and Irish citizen. Her poetry collections include Imagines (New Dublin Press), Strange Country (The Dreadful Press), Consent (Doire Press), Spinning Cities (Wurm Press) and Hymn to Kālī (Eyewear Publishing). MOTHERBABYHOME, a book of conceptual and visual poetry on carceral practices toward women and children at the St Mary’s Mother and Baby Home in Tuam, Ireland, is forthcoming from zimZalla. Her play Constance and Eva on the radical sisters Constance Markiewicz and Eva Gore-Booth will be produced in London in September. She is a Lecturer in Creative Writing at York St John University in the UK. www.kimberlycampanello.com