maggots

she cannot tell her
husband that there are
maggots in her fanny. that
the maggots only feed on dead
flesh. that they have been growing
inside of her. that they come out when
she pees. in the isolation ward there are
piles that have spilled out of her knickers. and
it is my mother’s job to clean them up. she hasn’t
seen a job like this before. never. she says that they are
climbing up the walls, dripping from the roof. the woman’s
husband oblivious doesn’t care. he’s picking things from his
teeth. how long since they screwed. the dead flesh inside consumed
and my mother on her hands and knees scooping up the maggots with their
stench heady visceral the sick in her gut and the water in her eyes and the pity she feels for this woman who hides her life from her husband because fannies fannies are shameful things and women do not have wounds do not bleed and the boy who is helping her a boy in his early twenties saying this is disgusting putrid i don’t want to think about maggots or old women’s fannies. as if at some point the perfect fanny, idol of his dreams withers dies disintegrates destined for maggots impenetrable un-pleasurable ugly nasty sick bitch… there are maggots in the blue scoop, withering, and my mother's hands are shaking and this young man is complaining and that old man still picking his teeth she does not understand him understand them understand this understand any of it except knowing this is dying.