Little bird, you sat on my sump shoulders in the winter like a cheap scarf with a pie of spiced cowardice and offered to share it a la mode.
I bit, to be polite. You stayed for afternoon chatter. Well enough-- the carnival was already over. We were out of clowns, our ringmasters retired. Our caravans were out of all navigation. You stayed. Years passed. You finally offered to indulge my revolving gluttony. Your special recipe: goat cheese and strychnine, flickering grapes and spit roasted ham hocks harvested by cross-eyed girls who drooled into their skirts. The tablecloth stretched under the platters you'd provided. The weave of fabric nearly burst with your fruit. It revealed our Magdalene-- horse-meat braised with chrysanthemums; Grandma's dish of quince and capers, infused with war and smoke. This cream and caramel rifle range, what a menu-- fit for a missionary, fit for a jackal. Your tiny feet stomped the corners of my eyes with hunger and oriole but you never could find a fork and when I left with no hands as I'd always been you screamed in anger! -Tay --------------------------------------------------- http://www.tayarrowsherman.com/ http://www.olio-academy.com/ --------------------------------------------------- _______________________________________________ Five7Five mailing list [email protected] http://www.pairlist.net/mailman/listinfo/five7five
