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lips.

21
     
    The lesson is spoiled. I say, the lesson is spoiled. There will be no more lesson. We will sit on the carpet. Don't move, I say. Don't move. You are a rock. We are rocks in the nursery. We are clods of dirt in the nursery. This is the new lesson, I say. We are very still. We are quiet and still. Yes, says Tamworth. She wiggles. She plays with the threads on Spot's mouth. They are white threads. They stretch from the skin in the corners of his lips. They stretch thin between Tamworth's fingers and the lips. Tamworth rolls a white thread into a ball between her fingers. Spot picks at a piece of skin in the middle of his lip. He picks at a thread in the corner of his lips. He looks at Tamworth's fingers, the motions of her fingers as she rolls the thread. Tamworth is very close to Spot on the carpet. I am very close to Spot on the carpet. We are still, I say. We are quiet and still. Spot breathes out. It is wet. The wet breath wiggles the skin, the threads on his lips. I look at Spot's lips. I hold my hand in front of Spot's lips to feel the thickness of the breath. I don't touch the lips. I hold my hand close. The wet is very thick. It is a clod. Spot pushes the clod from his mouth. He pushes the clod from his mouth. His shoulders go up and down. We are still. Tamworth puts her head on her knees. She is still. She turns her head to the side. Her nostril pulls wide. A squealing noise is coming from the crib. Give it ragbaby, says Tamworth. Ragbaby, says Spot. Ragbaby. You are rocks, I say. Rocks on the carpet. We are heavy and still. We can be hit with a stick. We can be hit with a knife. We do not move. Tamworth's knees are white and round. Her face is white and wet. Her cheek is flat on her knees. Tamworth moves her dull eyes back and forth. I see Spot's fingers dart out fast and twist the flap that hangs from Tamworth's arm. Tamworth makes a sound. Wetness runs from the flattened mouth. The squealing noise is louder. In a grand house, there are rocks on the carpet. There is offal on the staircase. There are hams in the chimney. There are pigs in the crib. I want a hot slice of ham. I am very hungry. The cook must come to the nursery. She must come up the staircase. Do you hear cook? I say. Do you hear cook? In the hall, I hear blows. I hear cries. It is the Master. I will go to him. I will not. He will notice my dark hair, my long face. The dress hangs on me. The loose threads hold the dirt. I shake my dress. I scatter my dirt on the carpet. The carpet is a field. The Master is an old man. When he was young, he was a farmer. He farmed a field. He rode a horse. He had short, fat arms. No, the Master is not a farmer. He gets his milk from the farmer. He gets white milk from the farmer. The girls bring the milk from the dairy. The milk is brown. The milk has turned. The girls walk on the road with the milk. They lie down in the ditches. Flies settle on the milk while the girls lie in the ditches. They are rocks in the ditches. The sun is hot on the milk. The men block the sun for the girls. They block the sun. The girls fill their mouths to keep out the men. They put dirt in their mouths. They are rocks. They are clods. They gag. They spit dirt in the milk. The men cast shade in the ditches. The Master waits for the milk. The cook waits for the milk. The children wait for the cook. They wait for the lesson to end. They are little lambs. They are little ducks. They are little pigs. Dear little pigs. No, they are not pigs. The Mistress did not call them pigs. They are pups. She called them pups. Her own darling pups. In the nursery, I must finish the lesson. Spot pushes with his breath. He pushes. I am wet. I shut my eyes. Spot lies across me. Tamworth lies across me. I feel the hard tips of their fingers through my dress, pulling the buttons on my dress. I wiggle. We must be still. Spot and Tamworth must be still. They lie across me. My teats are wet. My tongue is short and wet. I lap the pups. My tongue is short