Just the Hangover Please
|fig. 23) Drunk as Patty Still|
She hides in the shallow end of her otherwise deep pillow, waiting for it. Stay, stay, staying on target. Her hand trembles between her knees like it's an old man boarding a bus. The cotton slip, the rose, or the pink of it is also sweaty. It rides up Emile's back. Her ass it hangs out like the nape of a beast but it's all backward knees with one slit eye like a jingle bell. Gentle handfuls of understanding form the long swooping neck of its curve. Knock, Knock, Jerk.
The middle of the bed is an echo, like a tea pot with an urgent whistle and a hot handle. It's first rate but not fancy. It bangs and it bangs behind her sweaty eyeballs so no else can see. The real moves, all the moves that're committed to this memory happen right at this edge. The still sheets drape and crumple there at the horizon. Then they slip over the side and mingle blue with the clothes across the naked floor. Git up sum, I've got me this.
Her hair's brown. It's brown and short. It's straight and thin as a revival. On the low stoop at the party a girl poured beer on her skirt trying to kiss at her neck. The other girls laughed and thunk that she's just too. Her pointy angles and clever chin wear summer's simple lines like they're a treat. They would know, all of them girls do. All of the them come for the liquor and the TV.
Em Leigh, eMLee, This is how they say it but they spell it like, mean. The girls in the basement listen up to the power of prayer. They laugh at the math and the incense in the drawer. Emile understands the day to be lost in the valley of ditched blessings. When it should be worn and soft as the edge of a little record left too long in the day. Her she is as lost as a dry mouth on a sheep. Knock and then Knock again timorous as she goes.
The kitchen's warm and thick with buttery sun. There's the broad back of a round pink spoon in the sink beside the dread of her day. The table's cluttered with empty mail and all the glasses that can, and will, and should. While her emaciated sins drag through the stuff of stale booze and fatty tears. Her's is a revisionist gut and Emile is dean of its spasm and it's wretch. Oh and that brown sauce that's in the dish, it stays right there.
Let's wink and add a smile to our outrage. Let's spit in a bowl and turn all of our dimes out for thee. Let's just wait in aisle three. There the lamb and the lion will share a snack. Emile remembers funny bunny and the bristled tree. She thinks of the Dome of, God's Church in the Heartlands it's across the street.
To hold hands with a loud saint is to be blessed with ears, Emile holds her knees. There's the thin smell of farts without context. The empty bag and the long walk in her skirt. The door knocks for the kicks and all to be king.