pitter-patter above the asbestos-cracked ceiling. georgette was especially interested in finding the dirt between the sheets. her hair matted into a repressed queen, crinkly laced fingers already began to play dissonant chords.
middle c.
"do you think pa will show today?" "why would you start the morning with that question? god made night and day for us, not for him." my response was a punctuated judas kiss, a handful of hot porridge in a small child's hand. i knew that she would take a beat and lift her canopied spirit once again.
minor second.
"i dreamt of a real angel last night. she looked like you." i turned away, allowing the bed bugs to naw on the other side of my ashy skin. georgette understood that if she didn't shut up, then the world would stop turning. it would halt on its axis and fall into munching layers of dark. she knew that i preferred it that way. "she had these wings, longer than dodger stadium. black as pa's eyes."
"pa's eyes aren't black."
"that's the way they look to me."
"when he looks at me."
georgette had a way of digging. she understood layers. she understood patterns even though she had yet to have her molars set in. she was prehistoric in the way she made fire from rubbing both memory and truth and today it wasn't any dierent. she played her last note.
"you know you have his eyes."
"i know."
"but it ain't sting the same way as his does." "i know."