Who Is Amy?
Who is Amy?
Where is Amy?
Is she busy today?
What is she doing?
I hope she is sad.
She wouldn’t enjoy sad.
Her heart would clench
in her breast
and beat faster
and burst with tears -
tears that would
run down her face
crackle and fizz
in her waxy ears
her gut would clench
then spew forth
a burning acid,
cleansing release
jerky gulps
of cigarette-free air
would expand and dance in her lungs
and the skin
at the corners of her
mouth would crack and sting.
Her bruised face would ache;
her blistered and black-tarred feet
would rub tenderly
on the fur on the floor.
Her knotted hair
falling to her
shoulders in clumps
begs to be brushed.
The urgent, stinging
need to piss
would drag her to her feet.
Horrified and crying, crying,
she could decide
whether the last penis
in her
was there by consent.
The beautiful agony
of sober pain would come
in a colossal
leaden foamless wave
and gather her up
and flatten her down
till she fights to get up.
She is sober.
She wants to get up.
© Loretta Gaul 6.10
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