*Poetry — November 8, 2018
That night, to own the night, my mother—angry with my
shiftless stepfather—spun around five times, Erzulie Freda’s
horse.
Barefoot, off-balance, fresh manicure scratching at her
polyester nightgown, she tore through the sky blue cloth at her
left breast.
She demanded a sip of cool champagne, pink silk for her
exposure, a whole lotto wrist caresses, a little respect.
She smacked her own cheek with a beige powder puff, misted up a
lace kerchief with Liz Taylor White Diamonds. My baby brother
sneezed.
Grace cut her eyes at my bewildered teenaged doubt, then snapped
fingers for a hand mirror, a scoop of soursop ice cream, a
sharpened knife to cut out the rest of her checkered heart.
The husband—losing the argument—fanned her with their
glossy wedding photos. Lips pecking at her big toe, he renewed
his weepy vows.
Our Lady simply smiled down—moonlight with a little honey in
it. She fondled his quivering chin, then hopped onto a love seat
to gallop and grind.
That night, Mommi would not respond to Mommi. I should have
called her Mater Dolorosa. But I was too young to hear drums
beating for hips in the other world.
shiftless stepfather—spun around five times, Erzulie Freda’s
horse.
Barefoot, off-balance, fresh manicure scratching at her
polyester nightgown, she tore through the sky blue cloth at her
left breast.
She demanded a sip of cool champagne, pink silk for her
exposure, a whole lotto wrist caresses, a little respect.
She smacked her own cheek with a beige powder puff, misted up a
lace kerchief with Liz Taylor White Diamonds. My baby brother
sneezed.
Grace cut her eyes at my bewildered teenaged doubt, then snapped
fingers for a hand mirror, a scoop of soursop ice cream, a
sharpened knife to cut out the rest of her checkered heart.
The husband—losing the argument—fanned her with their
glossy wedding photos. Lips pecking at her big toe, he renewed
his weepy vows.
Our Lady simply smiled down—moonlight with a little honey in
it. She fondled his quivering chin, then hopped onto a love seat
to gallop and grind.
That night, Mommi would not respond to Mommi. I should have
called her Mater Dolorosa. But I was too young to hear drums
beating for hips in the other world.
Originally published in No Tokens Issue No. 4. View full issue & more.