Caper's Poets

For Ida, May She Rest In Sobriety — Janelle Elyse Kihlstrom

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,

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