Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Thirty-two become thirteen

Yellowjackets spit into the lavender bushes. Adrenaline needles fall away from the firm, fleshy rind of an orange. In a dream, you perform a tracheotomy with a straw and a hole puncher. Seriously. A swell of belly in Chicago’s steaming August, a patchwork polka-dot of scratchy pink hives. Another needle, this time Cortizone, piercing a pregnant thigh beneath old-school nurse’s whites. The tire was flat and no rush hour suit would stop to help. Trust me, this is only the beginning. A reason for the cheap Chianti. One letter spoken over the phone. You don’t have to send me gifts, honey. Abraham Lincoln’s tooth crumbles to imaginary dust in a one-room cabin. Toxic eruption, there you have it.

3 comments:

zuigiber said...

Why are you not writing?

jillkitchen said...

Because I thought no one was listening!

Monica LeMoine said...

Cool - I like this piece! Keep writing. :-)