Eight burned strips of bacon &
four pats of butter
on a dozen biscuits
was what the boy had
for breakfast.
His eyes were still blacked
from the night before, not
from fists but June’s mascara,
palmed from a Biloxi Woolworth’s.
The pink sateen of
his blouse was two-toned now,
wide dark swaths up the back
like a pyramid, winding down his
ribs like neon kudzu.
His momma was in her garden,
knees in the mud from last night’s
thunderstorm. The girl
walks in, rubbing her palm on
her nose, it makes this
wok wok noise.
Her arms are cold against his
collarbone, her breath is warm
against his cheek, her name is
not June.
From the open window
the smell of fresh basil, high
& bright & lush,
bent & twisted from the rain.
May 24-25, 2010.