by Jessica Myers
I wouldn’t call that living, my father said,
his hands open, as if it were obvious
to my mother, who’d asked,
How can that person live that way?
She asks this because two nights before
that prostitute, red with blood,
knocked on our front door, Can I use the phone?
My parents made her stand outside, alone
while they dialed 911 and told the cops to hurry.
Blood pooled on the edges of our porch,
dripped down the side, syrup in a movie.
Eventually, the cops took her away.
My mother asks,
when she looked across the street.
Saw the prostitute’s face sewn in patches,
sitting on the pimp’s porch, proud,
a drink in one hand, a cigarette in the other,
her arms draped with his as if it was meant to be.
Jessica Myers is editor-in-chief of No Teeth: a Digital Poetry Journal.
- ► 2010 (224)
- Whiskey and tooth pain
- The Peahen
- AFTER THE MURDER AT THE HOLOCAUST MUSEUM
- DAYS BEFORE THE DAY OF THE LONGEST LIGHT
- WALKING BACK FROM BALLET, JUNE 17
- "Just Remember to Translate Your Hand Movements In...
- BLACK RAIN, HIROSHIMA
- SHE SAID THE GEESE
- IN THE VA HOSPITAL
- Night Moves
- Ten Gallon Hat Dance
- cribnotes for paradise's tribunal
- SOME LOVERS
- PASSING ARLINGTON CENTER
- OTHER LOVERS
- "Down at the J and Flying"
- "Words of the Unprofound"
- FORCING BUDS
- Duck Hunt
- That Person
- Honeymoon in the Garden Apartment
- UNHOLY BOWLING
- “INDEED, WHY DIDN’T WE?”
- WHY DIDN’T WE?
- REMEMBERING LATER IT’S THE ANNIVERSARY OF WHEN MY ...
- get it together
- LIKE FALLING MADLY IN LUST WHEN JUST HEARING A DEA...
- I’M GLAD YOU ARE AT PEACE
- I STARTED OUT ON BURGUNDY
- Once Southbound
- Country Cafeteria
- The Freeway to the Interior
- Private Moon
- spiders and crows
- WOULDN'T YOU LOVE TO HAVE ME
- Poem For A Political Poet
- emily dickinson’s attic
- June and July 1968 Revisited
- my folks
- THAT DAY, MY BIRTHDAY
- against forgetting
- “Kingless Days”
- Living with Jesus
- ▼ November (46)