Sue Wootton



I can’t work miracles, Antonio. This is not a parable.
Cling to my legs as you may, burrow in as if going back—
it’s not going to help. Look, here we are outside the supermarket.
The wind is blowing and our clothes are thin. See how
the wealthy can afford to wear summer dresses on a day
like today. They only walk in the shadows for a moment,

just the time it takes to flossy past, all of a doo-da, all of a hurry,
because asparagus must be eaten fresh, and a perfect
avocado must be found. Do you know the perfect avocado, Antonio?
It is soft and melty, better than a pie any day, and better for your heart.
With avocados you need lemon juice and cold pressed olive oil.
Antonio, Antonio, I can’t work miracles my love. There is weetbix,

and at least I buy you milk. You piss me off, Antonio, your head
in my stomach like that, pushing and pushing. What am I? A lamppost
for a dog to sniff? A fencepost for a goat to ram? Antonio, I am
your stupid rotten mother: my hair is lank, my eyes are circled like mistakes.
I tell you for the last time, between clenched teeth, I cannot
work miracles
. Something’s going to snap, Antonio. I can’t say when.




Author’s Note


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