Sunday 11/18/2007 01:06:00 AM

In the box. With all four sides missing. No entry for the worm or the poison. Just dirt accumulating where the joints are weak. Torn envelopes humming like women in heat. The blood of little girls percolating between their legs. Millipedes and scorpions in fairy tales about the men. Charming princes and valiant villains all too sour for dessert.

In her bed. With dead arms weighing her down. Those tiny monsters so heavy. So strong. Like first words. And last ones. Or everything in between that makes either matter. Telling the stories in raw alarms. Woken up to nothing. And everyone. Broken metaphors. The pencil too close to the paper. The moment too deep inside her. They're gone, but still there.

Prominent fables turn lessons learned back on the teacher. Saviors with hollow hands try to catch her.

She finally stops counting. She knows there's skin enough even without the bones.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.