A flapper in another life. A bright red
bird. Born in a hurricane — or melted,
rather, like a witch. Not her wings
never gifted. Dripping blood instead
of wax. She sat waiting for a bone.
Didn’t like the new carpet, its chemical
smell. Didn’t understand about the stupid
glockenspiel. She would never learn
French, or take the bar. She didn’t buy
my bullshit, either. All that drivel about
love. Where’s your pun with its tongue
furled, its venom spring-loaded?
Daughter of an angry breed of muse –
something storm-dark, Gothic, High
Romantic. But she was something else,
had made a clean break – near enough.
Something witty and holding its liquor
until it’s off the elevator. No one
impressed. OK, impressed, a little.
The way it held its drink, the jaunty angle
of its cigarette. Try to feed a baby
in that pose. You had to admire. Not
to envy, but admire. She never learned
to milk a cow. A perfect Roman figure,
small on top. She could sport a pretty
giggle. You just wanted her to come, to
say her little lines, and leave. You didn’t
want to be the one to drive her home.
Filed under: Issue 3, Janelle Elyse Kihlstrom, Janelle Elyse Kihlstrom
