Emile, Please

fig. 23) the margin, it breaks

She's hiding in the shallow end of her otherwise deep pillow, waiting. Stay, stay, staying on target. Her hands tremble between her knees. It's like she's an old man boarding a very tall bus. The cotton slip she's wearing, the rose, or the pink of it is sweaty on her hip. It's ridden up Emile's leg and now her ass is hanging out of like the nape of a beast that's all backward knees with just one slit eye like a mocking jingle bell. Gentle handfuls of understanding form the long swooping crane of its neck. 

Knock, Knock, says the Jerk.
The middle of her bed is an echo. It's like a tea pot with an urgent whistle and a hot handle. One that's first rate but not too fancy. Once it gets hot, it bangs and bangs behind her sweaty eyeballs so no else can sleep. 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 as thin as a revival. On the low stoop at the party, a girl pours beer on her skirt trying to kiss at her neck. The other girls laugh, thunking she's just too much. Her pointy angles and clever chin wear summer's simple lines like they're a bright treat for all. They would know, all of them girls would know. All of the them come for the liquor and the TV.
Em Leigh, eMLee, it's how they say it, but they spell it like it's something mean. 

The girls in the basement will listen up to the power of prayer. They'll laugh at its math and incense jokes getting saved in the drawer. But Emile understands this as a day to be lost in the valley of ditched blessings. When it should be worn and soft as the edge of a little brown record that's been left too long in the warm daylight. 

Her she feels as lost as a dry mouth on a sheep. There's a Knock and then Knock again. Timorous as it goes again and then nothing more. The kitchen's warm. It's thick with buttery sun. The broad pink spoon sits in the sink along with other evidence of the day's dread. The table's cluttered with empty mail and all the glasses, ever. 

She and her emaciated sins drag through the stuff of last night, the stale booze and fatty tears that have been left behind. Her revisionist gut, Emile being dean of its spasm, the ceasing tightness of its twist and wretch. 

"Oh and the brown sauce in that dish, it has to stay over there."
"Let's wink and add a smile to that outrage, Sunshine." 

"Let's spit in a bowl and turn our dimes out for thee. Let's just wait in aisle three. Where the lamb and the lion share snacks, let's eat up the good girls that come along." 

Emile remembers funny bunny in the bristled tree. She thinks of the Dome of God's Church across the street.
"Holding hands with a loud saint will be a blessing to your young ears," but Emile holds her knees and cries. Her empty bag drags along the ground the whole walk home. She stops to smooth her dress by the road and the door knocks again, louder for its kicks and all to be king.