Souto & Miller – Aug. 15
In response, Leslie wrote this poem:
where will they find the body
when they hardly knew the mind
an old dirt road, a beach motel
the rubble of a broken home?
beneath the pile of books
I’d sworn to read, some words
and then some more?
god forbid a hospital
my eyebrows gone
metastatic anger on the x-rays.
will I be clutching pills
a gun, my heart?
my batman mask pulled down
B carved in my chest?
Will they know me by my bones
the birds and bugs I feed?
or will they find me slumped
atop the poems I can’t write
a word but not another
webs around my fingers
long before the struggle stopped?
* * * * *
Leslie shared this poem with Adel:
ode to Monday
Monday is the pit in Sunday’s stomach
dark cloud that blocks its first syllable
and begins descent until the second
has been snuffed out by night.
you can smell the putrid meat of Monday
all the way from Friday
a faint rancid cloy that drips in the throat
with the first sip of happy hour ale
diluted and forgotten in the next pull.
you are tempted to plunge its rat head
in the toilet and hold it there long after
the squirming stops but you can’t
because you need it. you need Monday
the boil that must be lanced
if we are to ever get things done.
Monday is the ugly girl at the party
ill-fitting dress and morning breath
but if you smile and kiss her on the mouth
without a sideward glance toward
the comely ones you could have had
she will let you go all the way.
In response, Adel made this image, entitled “Monday”: