1:50 a.m. - 2002-03-28
Pulp
Her mind was a watermelon, freshly split.
Actions spilling out like fresh pink juice
Speckled with black seeds, onto the dirty
Cobblestones behind the alley.
Making prisms in the sunlight, drying there
For all to see.
No one does anything about it, though.
He didn�t eat watermelon.
Except during a new moon, when the absence of light and color
Rippled throughout the bedroom.
The sticky sweetness of ripe insistence
Was there then, penetrating his nostrils,
Diluting the aftertaste
Of all that Jack Daniels.
We watched all this happen, during
A month-long maudlin mudsling. Maggots
Settled in the dirt beneath us,
Patient for the inevitable carrion.
We had enough dirty laundry to
Swaddle every baby that was never born,
And put them on display.
I see the smiles stretched wide, pulled
Tight over insincere, pearly teeth.
They think they understand me.
I open the watermelon girl, gossamer pulp layered
Inside; she expects I will not touch him
For all to see.
No one does anything about it, though.
