Wednesday, March 4, 2009

Conversations with Mona

The week the city tore down our hideout
Was the same week I circumnavigated your birthmarks
They varied in size and personality
Reacted unfavorably to my compliments
And were in constant communication with each other

“He doesn’t love you,” cried the splotch on your inner right thigh
“He barely notices me,” sighed the ink stain on your left shoulder
“We’re his favorites,” the Siamese breast scars echoed in unison, before dinner
“He couldn’t stop looking at me last night after you said it was okay,’ the darkened cloud on your lower back shivered
As your heart finally slowed down

Their expressed garbage eventually got under the pale skin
That they all permanently rented condominiums on
They phone each other on Sundays
Planned barbecued get-togethers
And whispered in locker room stalls

You defended our mischief
Until their voices overwhelmed you
And you asked to be alone for the night
Just to see what could be done

I shared cocktails with assholes
Pissing your name in the snow
As smoke poured from the open bathroom window

The neighbors claimed they saw steam
From the new births
You forcibly slit into yourself in the bathtub

But I didn’t believe their false claims

Worst of all
Every new child
Lining your arms and legs
Didn’t bother to say much of anything

They simply folded their hands in half
And prayed
For change

Like an anxious child
Watching the tank
With a magnifying glass
Wondering if the souvenir sea-monkeys
Will soon form an opinion
On their time spent growing

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