The Mother Knocks Again, Harder This Time

 

But still there is silence. She says the boy’s name sharply. Open the door. She steps back, watching the narrow bar of light that creeps from under the closed door. What can the child be doing in there. Open it, she says. Or I’ll call the cops. The door opens a few inches, grudgingly. He wears pajama bottoms, no shirt, his eyes cast down. The mother pushes past him into the half-lit room. The bedclothes in disarray, a lamp knocked over, the smell of sweat. The boy glances nervously at the closet: among sneakers and boots stands a pair of narrow feet. The toenails are painted pink, the ankles are slender. The mother approaches, a hand over her mouth. The feet belong to a naked girl. She hides among hanging coats and dresses, her hand shielding her face. The mother gasps. She turns to the boy for explanation. He shrugs. Then an explosion of movement as the girl grabs her dress and runs from the room. A flash of pale flesh. The front door slams. (more…)

Thank you always for you.
For all of your Selves – your Hells;
if it indeed plays out that
we can burn alive in more than one –
let it conflag around us
for there is no other wound
I’d prefer to endure
than the hot kiss of a She-Devil
who rents us a room;
be it red-lit and ready for She-Rage;
I say Fuck to Repenting.

Our words are the aloe / our tongues the spit
that can seduce a million demons in one lick –
When God is ready for us, sound the alarm
I’m still waiting for Him / to donate alms (more…)