He doesn’t say anything to the garlic. Mother Stress is
in the kitchen. Water from the shoddy gutter tugging
down the door, cracked from a wayward sun. And the
cat was dragging his bum leg. The cat called Patience.
Patience of farm and fichus. If only the son could be
mastic. If only the son could go dusky. Chromaticism,
chromosomes, clutched undercover. Her hopes. He
turned the knob on the stove and the flame was
grave, sidereal. Are you attracted to me? He asked the
onions. Huh? Huh? Meanwhile, she kneaded her
temples. He was mauling the beef, massaging the
marble, applaudable marbling—it’s Charity, Mother.
Patience and Charity mewling in the alley. Stop
worrying. Well, grow up. She would worry if she
wanted to. You don’t tell me what to do, Mr. Blue
Battleships tattooed on your shoulder. We just
refinished these floors.
Decoy Collage 9 - Kelly Clare
Gunfire in the garden—cherished recipe for cheer. Sister Sadness flicked the trigger and twisted her earring into a paperclip to hold a prolegomenon for “Cashmouth.” Saving is important. Shit sandwiches or not, crouch for copper. One round off, locked and loaded. Beautiful bullet, fat as a carpenter bee assaulting the archivolt. The bench was expensive with poinsettias from the nursery across from the Porsche Club president’s home. Takeout cartons from Golden Bowl. Lucky numbers 22, 38, 55, 18. Tucked away off County Line, Sister Sadness shot into traffic. What good was goodness? She had wasted wisdom. She shot again. Said winch. Grazed gazebos. A topiary elephant. O! When would she be useful? She splurged on a fur muff. Hid her trigger finger and slept on her back, snugging the barrel.
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