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      February 29, 2024Portrait of My Father as the Count of Monte CristoJoanna Preston

      Image: “Desperado” by G.J. Gillespie. “Portrait of my father as the Count of Monte Christo” was written by Joanna Preston for Rattle’s Ekphrastic Challenge, January 2024, and selected as the Editor’s Choice.
      They have made for him a mask, shaped of
      face and chest and shoulders and throat, not
      to protect him, but with seven long
      black screws to lock him firmly down. He
      goes into the machine and something
      almost him comes out. Because this is
      desperation, this attempt by force
      to burn out every hyphae of this
      thing burrowed in to his throat his jaw
      his tongue into the voice and breath and
      savour of my father, and so now
      they will burn him.
       
      My father goes into the machine, and
      something almost him comes out.
      For the burning they give
      him morphine. For the burning
      they give him morphine. For
      the burning they give him morphine and
      his skin peels into ribbons and he
      goes into the machine, and something
      of him comes out.
       
      A chevauchée campaign. Some of his
      hair has blackened as though scorched
      to its roots. He goes into the machine, and
      something of my father comes out. Kind
      people pat him dry, press salve and clean
      cloth and bandages against him. All this
      they can do without looking. He goes
      into the machine, and something almost
      him comes out. But his mouth
      is a charred cave, smoke-filled and
      acrid, his throat a scoured-out gully.
      His voice is a rumour of flame, carried
      by the wind at dusk to where children
      are sleeping. He goes into the machine, and
      something almost him comes out.
       
      For the burning they give him morphine.
      For the burning they give him morphine
      and methadone. For the burning they give him
      morphine and methadone and catch
      each other’s gazes above his weeping
      skin. He goes into the machine,
      and something almost him comes out.
       
      His face inside the cage is burnt and his
      lungs are the desiccated body of a crow
      wired to a fence as warning and his body
      is scourged and bleeding and it is
      Christmas and he has been made
      into tinsel and he goes into
      himself and he is dressed
      in a jester’s motley but cannot laugh
      the white gown of a patient but he
      cannot take any more wears the memory
      of my father but it is charred
      around the edges and there are embers
      in his mind and he goes into
      the machine and something
      does not come out.

      from Ekphrastic Challenge

      Comment from the series editor, Megan O'Reilly

      “There is something part human, part machine, and part something else–something indefinable–in G.J. Gillespie’s bold, abstract image, and Joanna Preston’s poem reflects this combination in the most profound and brilliant way I can imagine. Though the subject matter is excruciatingly human, the poet uses repetition, metaphor, and a detached voice to emphasize the clinical, almost robotic nature of what her father is enduring. The result is a poem so weighty and haunting, I needed to remind myself to breathe after reading the last line. Coupled with the captivating image that inspired it, ‘Portrait of my father as the Count of Monte Christo’ will reverberate in my mind for a long time.”

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