Living A Violent Life 6.19.2008 Poem by Margaret Alice

Typing a translation while Nici is giving me a
manicure, applying black polish to my nails,
laughing as she spills on my fingers, it looks
like I fell into an ink-pot, I give up one-hand
typing to admire my beautiful nails – this is
why I had kids, to keep me company

At home Nici covered the white-board in red
writing, it looks like a scene of murder; the
mess of CD’s and DVD’s creates a feeling
of total madness; when she and Tiaan play
games it sounds like insistent machine-gun
fire; I can’t stay in my own study

I can barely live in my own house with the
TV full volume competing with Nici’s radio;
Tiaan’s cell-phone bleeping, blood squirting
from little men in TV-games and cars racing
down scary streets underneath fairytale skies;
the weirdo’s who create the graphics must be

Nuts to create such beautiful scenery for games
scintillating in red violence; I am living a violent
life just at present; where did my little kids go?
Où sont les neiges d’antan?