by Francine DuBois
for stanley k.
his mouth is bulging with fried chicken
and the bones, like his biceps, are trying
to burst out of their fleshy casings.
his voice is garbled, worming its way
around gristle, drumstick, and crispy skin,
thick with grease and whiskey.
and like an oil slick, his voice
coats the house with his presence.
it makes the floor sticky.
she hears him even when he's not there,
his voice oozing through her eardrums,
blocking reality out with its solidity.
she is so tempted to kiss him right now,
to have those massive arms grab her
instead of that chicken breast,
to fill his mouth with her own
if only to get him to stop talking
and eating at the same time.
but she'd get dirty. he has a mysterious
black substance on his bare chest
and she's in white. "you look like a rabbit,"
he slurs between ravenous bites, "all
scared and about ready to jump outta
your skin. what you so afraid of,
and the oil slick has coated her
and she can't move, paralyzed,
near his grasp. she wants to say
she's afraid of being devoured,
of being shoved down his throat
between swigs of burning alcohol,
but she can say nothing and do nothing.
Francine's Version -- Hezekiah's
Version -- Inspiration
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