Hey Mama Whered You Get That Ass
At the discount body parts store. The one that sells
used tires from totaled cars and all those radios with
ghosts in them. From my mother, or from yours, both
of whom would be ashamed to hear you talking to me
like this. From sandwiches. And pie. And ice cream, which
I ate with my mouth, which is not your mouth, and therefore
has nothing to do with you. If what you ate had anything
to do with my ass, then maybe what was coming out of
your mouth would have anything to do with me. But this
is not about me, is it? This is about my ass. Where I got
it. You want to know where you can purchase an ass
like this one. Well, honey, I got it from your eyes.
Its shape, just the shape you make with your hands.
I am a descendant of your longing. Round thing with
inconvenient voice. Just a memory. Just a trick of light.
When I turn the corner and ignore you, I must disappear.
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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 46 | Fall 2015