Blackbird an online journal of literature and the arts Spring 2008 Vol. 7 No. 1




When the time comes I will lie
to you‚ pajamaed family‚

about the waitress who has scrubbed
with Arm and Hammer

the sterile urns that shine‚ clean as her food-
burnt hands. Our drinks in fat casino cups‚

I’ll drive the Mercury. Drunk I keep telling
the truth: fifteen‚ a virgin‚ yes. And she

folds back her shirt. And she loosens the bra
from one shoulder. By a cornfield place

I sway like a suicide‚ collapse into her chest.
“Harder and you’ll get a little milk‚”

she says. Of course I should know better.
I suck on her word a long time.  

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