Rachel Contreni Flynn
Turret, No Ladder
The drain is clogged with a cloth
upon which
a princess has been stitched.
All night the bathwater stays as it is –
grim, chill.
The girl's face grins, ridiculous,
under the faucet
which frequently drips. Drips
in the shape
of target practice.
Bit of His Rib
He tosses a bit of gristle, torn by his teeth
from the smoky sauced pig rib, into the yard.
I lie there, sauced, in the cool grass under the stars,
the clouds, and approaching now, the ravenous owl.
Steel
A man with black hair laughs at me from the doorway.
He's amused by my rough way of working. I insist
that I'm not here, and therefore cannot be bothered
by laughter. The man goes away only to return
with a bucket crusted in ice. Put yourself in here,
he says. It will help you. I've been tamped down
and now love it,
God help me. The bucket's not cozy, the man
not friendly. I steel myself as he glances down, delicious
and dark, into the bucket as he swings me by the hair,
still laughing.