sketch 11

her skin looked different under the 40 watt moon,
moods shifted, like her legs on the couch, in
the kitchen, her parents spoke in pig latin--
a simple conversation drew question marks and
various puncuation over her face. . .she
stretched out like an august sunday
and started to dip her finger tips
in the small puddle of chocolate milk on her
lap, it wasn't pretty but the stain
looked like a short, fuzzy cross.
it ran parallel to her hips and a small
tributary ran its course to the edge of her
dress.

when they addressed her, her parents wore
gardening gloves. her father held a spade,
her mother dragged a bag of potting soil
behind her. . .
with a pinch of the nose and a tilt of the
head, her parents began to fill her newly
braceless mouth with soil.

she clutched at her stain,
and even though they could
no longer
understand what she was saying,
good catholic girls
who dream of roseries
always learn latin at the
damnedest moments.


afternoon soundtrack: the comas-conductor; brian jonestown massacre-tepid peppermint wonderland; otis redding-very best of vol.2; spoon-kill the moonlight; mojo music guide vol3: raw soul